Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Motorboat Madness at the Matador Santa Fe and its negative 45 and I'm in a tshirt, jeans and blazer. I can see my breath, its like steam rising from the sewers. Probably just as strong too. I've got my gold luchador mask tied tight, Georges is red and green and evil and beautiful and smells like burnt paper and spilled fernet. Barging past the bouncer, we are masked men intending to wreak havoc a sleepy little snow bound town. Eyes alive with artfully danger - thick tongues and thicker still. We eat danger and breathe fire, all encompassing acolytes of eunoterpsia, a walking disaster film of pleasures of the flesh. Like a beer that's been shaken way to long my friends rush up to greet us, spilling out onto the streets, on my clothes and on my shoes. Fleshed out and real, standing on their own volition, not just manifestations of images and memories that flow through my mind when I speak to them on a cell phone 10,000 light years away. The moon is smiling on its mercurial son as we swim past the sanguine silhouettes of half remembered and half cocked grins and stares and such, to inside, in to the back rooms of the bar, in the dim 5 watt bulbs I can point out all the stars, shinning ever so brightly in that grimy Santa Fe way. Mexicans, Indians and the Gays coagulating in a pool of pear presses and tecate, limes with valentina hot sauces. Surging forth suddenly, deadlocked in a posed question, breathing in nothing and explaining everything. Triumphant in my return, flagrant in our excess, seeking fame in the redundant and paying homage to the mountain gods, grey gooses and the snow that's kicked up in the wake of their feathers. 2 a.m. tremors and its out the doors again, braced against the cold by thoughts of the next night, George is Trans Am - I Rambo Villa leading our flock of high school aged girls, artists, anemic and abrogating the spiritual in search of more sinister goals. We sweep the streets of derelicts and drunks giving them solid refuge for the next few hours into Georges house, Long live the King as Diplo speeds up the danger of the stereo. Then its All Talk and simple thumbed smiles, revelations, cheers, jello shots and two billion dollars worth of sniffled out hugs. Crazy dance parties in my gold laced mask, breathing in deeply, exhaling slowly, savoring, smiling and letting it trickle down. Making booze runs with my novia, snapping at my rucca and making long distance eyes towards the one I love. Comfy in chaos, insulting in ecstasy, the forearms of Jesus are ablaze in new found glory, from the mouths of babes come ever fouler things. Scurrying from the sun like party monster vampires we have found our way going till we're gone, bloated but still beautiful epic renditions of lives gone awry in a sleepy little snow bound town. Home again, from which I've left for way too long.