Feeling the need for a scene with more interesting neon.
Luminous gas patterns I can’t decipher; mystery glow
legends of a city I haven’t yet met with its sewer-deep
stories behind night market glances at a stranger,
weary-ridden by Lonely
with her willow tree hair,
tequila whispers
and empty kisses.
Needing the feel of a scene with asphalt warmer
than where I can’t recall the last time I saw the streets
breathe, but wind leaves my lungs white and congee thick.
“There’s no neon in the desert. You’re talking crazier
than the last time I gave you a ride.”
“I’m sober tonight, Mauricio. Can we hear
‘I Started a Joke’ again?”
drunken poem bodega 
Your headshot
looks like a life
i dreamed about
back in the fifties
i would expect
Your hand
to be loosely holding
a long skinny cigarette
thin tendrils
of slowly wafting
gray smoke
carrying a smell
that would remind
the knowledgeable
of Jamaica
and
the reason
for the sunglasses
Does everybody wonder
if they
were born too early
or
too late?
i am almost positive
i never heard
of a cab driver
named Mauricio before…
NIce, Curtis! 🙂