Describing a dive bar when your nose has been broken three times
is impossible, the scent cannot be pinpointed. It is something like water
and desperation- water cleans the hands and hair, fills the drinks,
water drops like rain in lazy circles on smooth concrete.
A man walks in wearing a crimson cape in the fashion of the Inquisition,
a silver cross spans the length of his spine.
Over his hair, a bandana is tied (a redundancy in Sanskrit);
it is decorated with the rising sun of imperial Japan,
an unkempt beard of five months or more thatches his face and as he walks in
the blonde woman at the jukebox begins a three-song arch of mariachi music.
I only mention the music to illustrate the fundamental unreality of all of this,
the depravity and weirdness of life that can never be found in fiction.
In different universes the woman is a brunette but the rest is the same.
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