“Tequila is a pallid flame that passes through walls and soars over tile roofs to allay despair.”
—Alvaro Mutis
Sergio was for no shit
that night. He was serving
up the blade juice, heavy-handed,
the sugary gold
sloshing over the tops
of much-thumbed tumblers.
Story was he rinsed
his glasses in gin to make sure
the germs were dead.
Well, no matter. That night
he was pinpoint focused
on laying his regulars flat
with fountains of Cuervo,
free for the time being
because he said it was.
The open mic,
an odd parade of eggshells
and desperadoes, had limped
each poet duly convinced
that his lines had leapt
from the cocktail napkin,
sliced through the din,
and changed Chicago.
Now, no more
of those bare offerings,
florid lyrics of tomorrow and gray.
The doors were locked.
The M.C. was atilt, souvenir bras
dripped from the ceiling
and the Johns smelled like snow.
This was world enough,
a timed blathering of our sad biographies,
Playtex as décor,
and an overwrought
of fever water spewing
from the grimy hands
of an insane Mexican barkeep.
When we slowed,
choking on the bitter kick
as he poured and poured,
Serge bellowed a thick-tongued
threat: This ain’t no joke. Drink,
you motherfuckers.
He waved a sudden gun,
a clunky thing that sparked
snickers until he blasted
a hole in the ceiling and
revised our endings,
smalling our big drunken lives.