Primo Alonzo

By | 31 October 2021

Men that big shouldn’t be shot down
But deployment to redeployment,
Surface-to-air missiles
It’s just a matter of time

He was the second coming of Fernando Valenzuela
bringing the heat, teaching me the four-seam
sneaking me spiked punch at birthdays
Making me a witness to when he hung his eggs
over the bridge on the freeway
Shouting at the oncoming traffic to take him all in
Shouting at me when I wouldn’t do the same

No worries, primo, he says,
Even though he’s thicker in the waist
And he won’t ever step on a plane
And there’s this fucking ringing that’s
not happening right now, but wait,
haha, there it is again

I don’t mind, primo, he says—
It’s summer and we’re two beers deep
Looking for a third in his old Firebird
Trying to outrun the smell of
open-air garbage and jet fuel
The cicadas and their horrible sound
The humidity

When it’s time to fuel up, he asks if I can get it
He takes the back of my hand
and presses it to his forehead, skin to skin and says
Since I’ve been back, it’s the strangest thing
Every time I put gas in the pussy wagon
All that comes out is blood
No gas, just blood
The smell, texture, look

Hella blood

What do you tell a person with a curse they can’t lift?
You take it in, let the quiet hang, laugh
And believe them when they say no worries
and that it’s the strangest thing
and they really don’t mind
and hope it’s something another beer can fix

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