the doors of hell have numbers on them upside down

by Alan Catlin

in this life like a mexican border
town of the mind, halfway between
noir and surreality, deep dreaming
rainbow colored neon in thick polluted
haze, nothing concrete especially not
the buildings, the rolled up pavement,
these jails without bars, and the bars always
packed with hombres muy borracho,
brain dead but fathappy on a strict diet
of bloated worms found floating in bottles
of tequila azul their habits supported by
soulsisters, acolytes worshipping at the altar
of Our Lady of the Too Tight Miniskirt
with their blood brother pimps, peyote button
pushers, each entreaty from their rubio rouged
lips an executioner's song, satanic verses
for a candlelight processional of saints
and sinners; in this hour of dire need,
every day is the day after the last one.