Read - Path of the Suit - 3

Crocodile Rider

When I was young and feral full
living, in Cancun before
the drug money, the tourists, Club Med
the malls, chalingas—

I liked la lagoona side bars, half jutting
into salty water, tequila, rum ice
mixed with a Spanish troupe of tour-dancers.

The manager of the Club Cuba told me
serious and sober
be wary of the Spanish flamencas
señor, por favor.
I listened close and carefully he
stood, and left his table.

I walked out the back to the docks,
away from the music, the loud
night still, lagoon boats
at anchor. Down below me
sea river rising
surface floating
like ready-made leather shipping trunks,
camion pairs, saltwater crocs,
inspecting the night
still-splayed on the surface
of the blue-clear water
searching for offal.

The male huge and menacing
the females sleek, fine, nervous.
Above me drunken blonde Spaniards speaking
perfect Castillian, laughing, wild
following me out
side eyes down shrieking

as they saw a crazy-free gringo
catapult onto the backs of weightless
reptiles—foaming, dangerous, tail
whip-thrash and
screaming.

Pursuer with Moon

Evening and I swallow the sky with ocean ladled from a red measure cup my pointer finger buzzes its grind my pursuer costumed as Pierrot considering the moon he puffs tobacco scrapes his viola the moonbeams drip streets with rivulets his whining supplications bowed grotesquely the streetlamps cast jaundice waxen like daylilies Pierrot pursuer puffs a Bartók snap his face waxen O morbid jester my fool he rises puffing approaches me sucks my toes as he plays a whining supplication on his viola.

Boudhanath TV

When there is power, there is television.
The set never fully switched off, only browned out.

Wake to Indian news. Riots. Stern-
looking policemen in brown uniforms.
Modi, in his infinite exasperation. No gasoline, again.

The morning is for Hindi soaps. This is how
amala practices her Hindi. She likes the women, too.

In the afternoon, amala’s favorite: a Real-World knockoff on MTV
India, hosted by a former porn starlet. It reruns for hours a day.

Then there is Bigg Boss. Everyone watches Bigg Boss. It is Big Brother,
but no one here gets the Orwell reference. Hence, Bigg Boss. Two G’s.

Pala’s favorite comes on after. A game show, featuring a middle-aged
Apolo Ono and office supplies. It’s called Minute to Win It.
Pala flips cups and balances coins along with the contestants.

If we are lucky, there is still time to watch a Fear Factor from 2002,
but most nights, the power goes out, and the set goes dark.

Turn Left

A fluorescent tube sputters, dies, and leaves the corridors an atramentous abyss. The office imitates your silence. Somehow you've lost a shoe and your dress sock is soaked. Then, the floor tiles crackle and ripple, drawing back to form a towering wave of black ink, and as it rolls over you, you manage to whimper and hold your nose.

Turn right

You've located an editor. His back curved so his chin rests on his desk, he is somehow still able to hammer away at his keyboard without glancing at the screen. Words you thought code now mutter into something sensible, "fancy fickle philistine fwomple 'mong the many-matted martyrs..." He coughs, pings the wastebasket with a projectile of phlegm, and asks, "Brought mead, 'ave you?"

flee towards the exit!