Flame leaps from the hand, the rain is listless Yet drinks the thirst from our lips, solid as echo… (Canto VII)
I have eaten the flame. (Canto XXXIX)
A corner table, Taqueria Too Hot for Comfort, just outside of Arena, New Mexico. Waiting on Fajitas al Pastor, and another Dos Equis. Munching chips and salsa, squeezing lime into the stone wear bowl to kill a little of the heat. My fault. I asked in my best TexMex, “Ajima! ¡Más caliente por favor!” “My own damned fault,” as the theologian said. Here comes the HausFrau with the tortillas, a boy behind her carrying the sizzling pan of meat and threes. Cholula in the condiments rack, a side of nuclear peppers. I’ll be paying for dinner all night long as I watch the stars spin their tale.
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Day one, NaPoWriMo 2019. An ounce of Pound for inspiration… and not a drop of tequila, I promise. Sad thing is, the voice is recognizable in parts of the West.