la pelea




golden boy lands a hook!

i take un trago y grito,

but spit up an english


that now tastes

like flat beer.


i cup

tío nacho’s modelo,

sweating neck numbs

mis dedos, jam


my chewed nail

under the tab, & sip—


the drunken chants—

                                                                                                                                  the malted honey

that teems my tongue

                                                                                                                                           to pry open


the bronze-kissed mouths

who’ve waged all week

for the grainless display

of pay-per-view.


i watch the pixel

fire flies that light up

their sawdust boots.


how it draws them.


they stand by

mexican ringside—

the backyard botanas

of tajín’d pepinos

& dying charcoal.


slouched at the ready

for de la hoya to swing

at sugar shane.


i lean back,

recite the chispas

de frases that brush off

their bigotes,


& hope to connect

a sentence.