Trading Sunday mornings
for getting stone
selling my soul to the agave.
Iguana Tequila.
With a mirage of shadows
slow-burn.
Tasting the smoke
of the reptilian’s tongue.
Bless me, Father
for I sinned
and not looking for penance.
Just a cigarette…
and no rosary
to put on my grave
as the shadow dance.
Iguana Tequila.








