“Call me back. I’ve become a voyeur,

watching the light push a tongue

in the ocean’s ear.

I wish I was there, with grit and glitter smeared on my

face in our Waffle House, transfixed by a silver-shot mohawk.

Here my skin peels and my blood clots with sequins

because I’m an elixir, baby.

I’m fun, right? Yeah, I’m a carousel of fun. I’m a summer squall.

I’m on my back while the vultures circle like a mobile over a crib

singing about burros and very gentle blackouts.

Is sunlight prickling your nightclub?

I didn’t smash the bottle. And I didn’t curdle the party.

Just so you know.

You can let your doves roost in my eyes again, love.

Don’t let your eyelashes flutter on the word, “didn’t.”

Call me back.”

Drunk Voicemail from Baja California