Día de Los Muertos: More Groggg!!

Barkeep, it’s Thursday, I’m thirsty and just back
from doing heavy-duty reconnaissance downtown —
I’m loaded with scented candles, new boots,
nonsensical knick-knacks and precious mementos
to remind me to party heartily this Day of the Dead,
like a placard sporting a happy skeleton riding his
mountain bike through a psychedelic fiesta skyline
dabbled with roses and blue animals.

So, yah, Jewels, just cuz you’re my best girl-bud
and buddha-muse this side Seattle,
what do ya say huh let’s put on our most
splendiferously clandestine hot pants
(or even chartreuse-sequined lederhosen
would be so sezzy-fine on Ladies’ Night).

You can wear your blue morpho butterfly brooch
upside down to follow your bliss
and I’ll don my Christmas-glittery Pogues tee.
Lemme meetcha at Sammy’s to chitter-chatter
over raucous chick cocktails like cosmos
smacking of quick lingering splashes of cranberry.
You kinda got me hooked on très retro mojitos
after you turned me on to the real mint-ground McCoy
that Bumbershoot summer at lil club
by wild-glazed architectural wonderment EMP,
shapeshifting its magenta chrome finish to teal and gold
in elusive peeks of rare ultraviolet afternoon radiance.

No doubt at some point you’ll be tipping back
a few blue agave dream-laced
Norwegian Cabo Wabo margaritas and then
begin humming something Van Halenish,
most probably "Best of Both Worlds."

Bee Girl, you’re the only person I know
who’s so brilliantly effected by Mexican tequila
that she dances her ass off
listening to mild-mannered Pete Yorn.
But then, you’re an accountant by day
and your trans-Atlantic Irish boyfriend really reads Yeats.
After a tender and gentle chiropractic adjustment,
Yorn might seem, well, positively metallic.

We’re not getting older, dammit,
we’re getting cuter by the clock.
To moderately embellish here on a little Eckhart Tolle,
as our fragile-skinned bodies weaken with age,
then our big shiny non-thinking
Consciousness kicks-in even better
and we pour forth an irresistibly beautiful luminosity.
How gloriously transcendent is that!
It’s Puget Sound but we’re still
praying like crazycakes that tomorrow’s
all Sumatra, sunshine, and fuzzy rainbows
just so our loco muerto Jimi can keep kissing the sky.

© Kallima Hamilton