In Uncategorized on July 13, 2009 at 1:46 pm

west coast 010


Tijuana twinkles galactic,

mapping hills with a million

specs of light—

our engine throats its war-cry

and lunge,

we penetrate the border—

a puff of air

framed in limp concrete,

no stamp, no glare,

no acid-stomached pause.


We float to Tijuana,

as silent as a star.




Beneath the lamps

our cantina is cast as blue

as a shallow tropic sea.

A tartan tablecloth

sucks our forearms

as we swallow areola tacos,

limpopo rivers cutting

down our wrists.


Clans of mustached men

smile at us

like grandfathers.


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