Drag queens did rancheras,
mocked Mexican whores.
A big-titted Cuban bartender
pounded mint into a tumbler,
flexed her biceps, laughed
that this was Chinese drudgery.
“Are you a romantic? No? Yes,
it’s too expensive, I think so.”
Sang at my fan, thumping
breath back down my throat, vibrato
down the wet
bright beach, Sinfonia
Concertante seeming to soar down through white clouds painted pink by the
_ _ sunrise, voices
of the violin and the viola so close, best friends touching
in some bowling alley bathroom, laughing
their heads off, running
from security, slimy
serpents sliding back and forth inside two
fists, each inner governor corrupt, too
into it, performing an act, fondling
his microphone, singing flamenco.