Jackalope Mamacita

I shook hands with Leo. His dreadlocks almost put my eye out when he turned his head. Standing next to their tour bus, I admired Bob Marley’s stoned to the bone likeness. I wiped the marijuana and patchouli off my hand onto my blue jeans. I asked him in Spanish if he spoke English.

“Most assuredly, amigo,” he replied with a heavy accent.

“Do you cats have any spleef?” I asked.  

“Hell yes, gringo. Let’s go to the room.”

We were staying in the same hotel in Guadalajara. His room held three Rasta dudes from Chile and two yaga men from Oaxaca.The room was filled with swirling smoke. Six young fine mamacitas were dancing and stripping. There were mushrooms and peyote and big piles of grass on every surface. I hadn’t seen so much dope since a Hendrix concert in Albuquerque and I worked back stage.

Two amigos were playing Santana, two were playing jungle drum riffs from what sounded like Ginger Baker’s Cream solos. The party was turning into a frenzy, like a nest of cobras mangling and making love to a cage of hungry tigers. I whipped out a chapbook and started reading a poem. The best looking of the babes ripped off her bra and panties and started unzipping my fly. I tried to finish my poem, to the wild applause of the room full of musicians. She took me to the bathroom and we did it standing up against the sink.

Later we jammed into the mezcalito night. Leo hired me to open for them the next night. He said the gig paid $50, which was more than most poetry paid. I had to read earlier at the Gandhi Bookstore. It was a good thirty minute read, I sold eight books. The owner insisted we play hide the tamale before I could split. She reminded me of Sophia Loren.     

I met the men from Chile on Calzada Indepencia in front of a large auditorium. We did damage to several blunts before I took my white butt out on stage. I read and chugged wine from a goat skin. Three women climbed on stage and handed me money and phone numbers. I think they wanted me to wail, get off or ball their brains out after the party. Leo and One Love hit their mark, loud and impressive. I’d never seen Marley, but these motherhumpers cooked and sizzled.

The joint was jumping, but I was craving some air. They owed me $50, but money is an iguana eating a jackalope. I headed for the capital and clean threads and a much needed bath.  

After three days in Mexico City with a new lady friend, exploring Frida Kahlo’s Casa Azul, Trotsky’s fort like house, museums, and our hotel pool, Leo called from Santiago. He said the condors above Machu Picchu were disappearing.

“Can you come down and do a condor benefit read?”  

 I explained the situation to my lady. She shrugged.   

“Let’s do it,” I replied.  

“Bring some condoms, at least four hundred,” Leo said.


“You’ll find out,” he chuckled.  

I didn’t know whether we were going to copulate with gigantic birds or Incans. I purchased the French envelopes and boarded the next flight. The plane took off and a natural blonde stewardess rubbed her breasts on my face. I thought, looks like there might be a few missing rubbers by the time I get to Chile. Her cascading hair had an angel like quality with the sunlight shining through it.

I forgot to ask Leo the Rastafarian how much I was getting paid. Who cares? I’m eight miles high and I just got a pair of perfumed panties served with my golden agave juice.  



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