…Texas.
Miles came on smooth,
took the wrinkle out
of speakers too tinny
for his magic.
The skyline could have been Tokyo,
Manhattan, Paris,
but it wasn’t—
it was Pasadena.
I settled for a Pasadena somewhere in Texas,
not even California,
sandwiched at Jake’s Bar
on a Taco Tuesday,
35 floors of heat above
a mixed-use zoning fiasco,
where business sucks bad enough
they serve two-dollar fish tacos.
Outside, the heat cooked bugs
onto concrete walks
and afternoon storms
washed them down
with a sticky sound.
I sat surrounded by
the unfiltered Camel’s smoke
that smelled like camels
that never sweat,
preserving the little water
they had left.
In a dirt-rinsed white tee,
robbed of any glee,
its neck stretched
noose-ready,
barely awake, I drank.
Warm well bourbon—
I’ve tasted better gasoline—
but I pushed it down,
thinking it might burn out
whatever that girl left
in my throat last night.
But it’s not all bad.
It’s Taco Tuesday,
and you really can’t screw that up,
except Tuesday’s also trash day,
so finding parking
when one fish taco
goes for two bucks
was going to suck.
Still, Miles said it was okay
with a sax
that sounded
something like sex—
the good kind,
when it’s smooth
and sweating feels
like oil,
and you glide,
and smile,
and figure
it ain’t so bad.
BB Grey--musings 
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