tijuana

i get stopped by tan motorcycle cops in san diego
on my way to tijuana for rolling through a stop
sign. they ask me if i like their new p.d. jackets.
they don’t give me a ticket. have a sunny
southern california day officer, thanks for not
finding the acid.

i haggle a 3 dollar ride from a drunk cabbie at
the boarder. he weaves inches from bumpers. fast
traffic, lane to lane. death rattles my teeth in
this back seat. remind me to put this on the list
of times i almost killed myself on accident.

i watch children sell chiclets while old women
pick pockets. i eat a lap dog taco and buy a swig
of wine from a little man holding a very big jug.

an old timer tells me he owns a bar. beautiful
women will serve me cocktails a couple of blocks
away. when i get inside all i see is a set of
stairs and red light. enter a line up of women
that look like my uncle tony in lingerie. the
ladies call me names i can’t understand because i
don’t want to screw. i feel bad so i give them
each a dollar for hugs, but some would rather
shake hands.

a small boy leads me down back
alleys to a place he calls “a nude bar”. i see
things i’ll never tell my next ex girlfriend. i
think a lap dance means something far more
aggressive in mexico. the bottles don’t have
labels. even the beer wants to remain anonymous.
i’ve forgotten people die in places like this.

never j walk in tj. don’t bribe a federally for
his hat. if i get lost i’m fucked. there are
identical churches and similar shoe stores on
every corner in the part of town where duty free
has never existed and neither do i.

it’s monday and nobody’s at work. what do
americans really do between commercials? my best
guess is they open another bag of chips, living
life 22 minutes at a time through someone else’s
eyes. i sit in san diego and watch blonde people
play beach games and surf. i try to count the
jumpers downtown standing on top of skyscrapers
scratching god’s ass for money.