Thursday, July 24, 2014

Formica Tuxedo (Saturday Night at the Matador)



A shelf filled with crème de menthe, the DJ playing
50 Cent on his laptop, The Defiant Ones with Closed Captioning
on the flatscreen behind the bar
I’m slippery within my sleeves, elbows creaking
on the cracked laminate, I tattooed your face
on my chest so we’ll be buried together after all,
it’s snowing sawdust in here, the walls crowded
with paintings of bullfighters on velvet
and pasteboard, sneering in their Mickey Mouse Club
hats, snapping their rags at the lowered horns
of their porterhouse partners. The door flies open
with a waft of sulfur from the fireworks skimming
across the asphalt, and in stampedes a herd
of shimmering girls screaming “It’s Jello shot o’clock!”
before dipping into their purses for their IDs.
The bar beneath my hands is covered
with overlapping rings of cheap Mexican beer sweat.
The urinals in the men’s room are the size of
claw foot bathtubs. I would like to be buried in one,
curled up like a mummified desert rebel
can of Tecate in one hand
torero pants folded neatly over my arm

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