popsicles and eggs


These days I rise
after the bare minimum
of shut-eye
and feed you too much
cheese and eggs and beans
like Mexico.
Even as memory
begins to fade
My favorites bring
me ease
like pina colada popsicles
eaten too fast.
Like all that chamomile
tea and arguments
over nothing,
or taxi drivers whose
favorite game was to
rip us off
and laugh over their
chorizo grease
at how naive Americans are,
how the light-skinned
women bitch too much
drive their men nuts
then run off and fuck
a tourist because
it's spring break and their tits
are perky, they're entitled.
But those days
we got so skinny,
living off the land
and Pedialite popsicles.
Now I find myself
sipping cold coffee
that smells like
old almonds,
writing down my life story
in the blink of an eye,
only a minute or twos worth of
strange photos
and a voice i hate to hear
as my own.
I may not talk much,
or talk about it
but
I have this habit of
lying in public bathrooms
face down on the
cold, smudged tile,
waiting for a miracle
Or maybe just
a gas bubble
to work its way
out of my weary system.