Apropos of nothing but a dream which maybe somebody
had once had
And never told anyone about,
Consuelo Maninguez walked through the swinging
doors and into the bar
At four in the afternoon
Smelling of catnip, chartreuse, and a dirty septic
tank
Which had apparently exploded.
Smoking a reefer, he wore white Superman briefs
Which showed off his thick, Chicano legs
And protruding belly, moderately covered in hair.
He wore red leather boots with spurs and a violet
hat,
And gazed out with wild, blood-shot eyes.
He began singing a song as he approached the bar,
Swinging his hips like the tornadas of two ancient
love songs,
Thrusting his exceptional bulge forward like a
theme,
Too obvious to be refined.
He ordered two drinks,
Pulled the pistol out of the back of his underwear
And set it on the bar,
Sitting next to the plump blonde diva sipping on
whiskey to his right.
He downed his drinks, yelled obscenities into the
air,
And tried to paint the diva’s face in the mirror
behind the bar
With his drunken bloodshot eyes—a strange
surrealist disfigurement
That makes him hornier than the real thing.
He orders another drink and makes a toast:
“A la derecha! Por su insingificancia!”
He balls up his fist, and slams it down
Like a ballast upon the bar.
He squeezes out an eyeball and puts it in the diva’s
drink,
Pays the bartender in gold bouillon before making
his way out.
As he leaves, he smiles as he hears the scream of
the diva,
Who’s found the lucky eyeball,
And he replaces the pistol down his backside,
And it sits there, trapped by the two giant bulges
of muscle
That form his ass.
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