Dante Ocariz

This week's (belated) feature poem is by a resident of the Phoenix area and considers himself "Bukowski 2"--whatever you choose to make of that is your deal; I choose to enjoy it for what it is and giggle politely at what it is not. 

Bad cockfight in Tijuana

Several pot-bellied cowboys stand over the dead body of a fighting cock

I had 50 dollars on.

A few laugh while others count their winnings.

The owner of the bird removes the steel spurs

and hands it to the winning team as a prize 

then walks off.

the scene empties with the last of the spectators

hitting the bar for shots of mezcal.

I'm left alone staring

at a once tough

champion with an eye missing. 

The wind mockingly plays

with his raised feathers

and covers his wounds

with the dust of the street.

The blood dries quickly

but the memory of his failure is fresh

in my empty pockets.

Shit .

I thought we both would make it today.

But it was luck,

pure luck,

theirs

not ours.

And they all leave

with whatever you gave them.

you

dead with a snapped neck

and me

lost in Tijuana

with no bus ticket home.