Tijuana Monday

Slowly, I realize my eyes are open;

Apparently, I’m awake and alive.

I’m sore and mangled, wretched and tangled,

I hope I never know what that smell is.

The memories hide behind columns of

Smoke which rise from a bomb-cratered weekend.

I’m left with flashes of nightmarish fun

I’d like to think I’m not capable of.

I need to find the guys and the car and—

Wait a second—Who the hell is this bitch?

 

                                  * * *

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