From the Fishouse

it's pouring boys racing past lowered red truck stopped in hollywood flitter. she
said it's pouring conjunto. he said it's pouring gals with tight jeans lit up with
wow pow lights. it's pouring morning in cerveza bottles, cucarachas walking
upright on walls. security in golf cart rounds checking it all out. it's pouring
young men grabbing gals for public kisses. the smell of lemongrass and urine
pouring from stadium lights. it's pouring green parakeets squawking in between
tall-glass-of-water mesquites, between telephone wires dangling the bluest notes.
it's pouring squabbling over grammar and patrol zones – oops, the nose lit up red
when metal tweezers dipped in. it's pouring dropping in unannounced without
sotol or ether. it's pouring conspiracy theories – thunder breaking beak calls &
two second respites from hot weather.