"margarita" poems
Eroding brick wall
all that remains
refracted, fading
fishermen shadow
red dawn’s early light
brackish still water
shocked violent green
seeps from the desert
to be subsumed
by an unrelenting sea
restless dreamers rise
muscle sturdy pangas
into the churning tide
seeking quicksilver
at the continental edges
returning boats ride low
the shrinking horizon
race to safe harbor
cold beer on ice
under palm palapas
in the restaurant
a young man
shows off tuna
half as tall as he is
to admiring tourists
like me, seeking
the deep, slow burn
salt, jalapeno, lime
a fitting end to this
unraveling dream
Pueblo Mágico
of “no bad days”
walls of contention
in a fractured land
will never separate us
one margarita, two
another raised in defiance
of those who would try
to confine and define
free-range spirits
the Pacific touches
this contiguous shore
from equator to pole
we could catch
a clockwise current
follow Polaris up North
arrive transformed
magnetically charged
disparate souls fused
together bound
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
Oh the enjoyment
of full deployment
in lines of unemployment.
No more paper,
To cut a caper,
Might as well go ride a tapir.
No more phone calls
driving me up the walls
Ringing dinging until my skin crawls.
Freedom is my new motto
Gonna drive down to the Grotto
And have me a margarita until I'm sotto.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 12:08 PM UTC
1. Fallow brown, like he's poured his whole soul out through the gold sieve and lies in wait to be replenished.
2. The color of the ocean. Blue, I guess, but that’s not even the half of it. All the ruggedness of the waves—forming up, breaking, and forming again like life is only the motions. Her eyes are blue, but you could hardly tell.
3. A hand-painted bowl of fresh chocolate frosting from which the most immature hands soonest get a mouthful.
4. Beautiful. Like, drop dead gorgeous. I’d dig my own grave and stick to rolling in it if she ever looked at me some type of way. Their color? I don’t know. But most of all, I dare to wonder about the bludgeoned scar between them.
5. Sturdy cobalt. Far more indicative of her steady heart than gold could ever hope to be. Still susceptible to tear, but not so easily warped by heat or stress.
6. Simply brown. No, red? It’s always been hard to tell through the fog. Truthful like the rawest earth, I’ll call her mahogany.
7. Faded blue spray paint over a slate gray wall. Forcibly muted after her years of blasting music, but there’s still that rogue twinkle to them that I pray slips through the cracks.
8. Coffee, with all the vim and vigor to make you click your heels and fall in love.
9. Unripe lime seen lazing in the shade. Not fit for a margarita just yet, but straining at the bit nonetheless.
10. Hazel, although I still don’t know what the **** that actually is. Whatever. It looks nice on her resume.
11. Green. Or were they blue? The memories of her were too wonderful, too important, that I had to let the littlest details fade away first.
12. The crystallized seafoam that made me realize I deserved to feel alive, too.
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 3:09 AM UTC
I imagine sitting on a porch somewhere humid and calm,
a tall tree, full of hand fruits, providing shade to foot traffic.
In this imagining, the lemonade is almost too sweet but doesn't stick to the table when it dries, and the mesh lining of the patio denies mosquitos all entry.
Their buzzing is drowned by the sound of ice being crushed three or four times with margarita mix and my favorite sin. Here, life has halted so dearly in a way I've always wanted, and in this, there is peace.
My parents would have kept a container of peanuts nearby to have with their Pepsis for days like this--
days where sound and warmth and humidity mingle, and fanning yourself with an old church pamphlet was better than being
bored, comfortable, and air-conditioned.
Apr 15, 2023
Apr 15, 2023 at 12:04 AM UTC
I looked up at her, “Do you know why people drink too much? Why they push themselves over the limit?” It was a sincere question that I wanted to know the answer to.
She set her drink down, looked around the bar, and pursed her lips. Her eyes stared right through me, perhaps searching for words. She looked at me again, with her mouth barely open.
“Not everyone drinks to get drunk, or have a one night stand. People drink to forget. People drink to cope. People drink to be ghosts of their past. Every shotglass that someones drank, its a cry for help. If you listen closely, you can hear what they say through their ***** and salt.” Three clinks from glass hitting the table shortly followed.
“Did you hear it? They said ‘I lost my job’, ‘my boyfriend cheated’, and the most common one that I hear, ‘I’m unhappy’.”
Her eyebrows shot up, a greater understanding shining through her eyes. “I think thats why so many shy people are so good at art. They’re not good at expressing themselves in words, so they do it through lines and colors.”
She stopped speaking for a moment.
“It’s like…your favorite alcoholic drink says a lot about you.”
And with that, she finished her margarita, stood up, and left.
I wonder what that said about her.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
My breath fogged your glasses
well...
someones glasses
hard to tell hard to see hard to care
so I whipped up a couple of blinks and pumped more blood
garden fresh cheeks
lace and sweet cherry knots
memorizing scripts in margarita swirls
same sentences--erased lines
spied the EXIT fall
crashed with a simple laugh
I laughed too
rows of lipstick stains and plastic strips
tripping over the way out
muttering punk sputtering prank
then they wobbled out the
ENTRANCE
and I ordered more foggy
glasses
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 10:34 PM UTC
midnight wasn't a cure
for all that darkness following her
she could see the sun coming up someplace ahead
always see the cheap advertising long
before some idiot actually hits the switch
stepped on the gas but her feelings kept pace
with this four stroke joke of a machine
one stroke for each time it failed to get her away
from feeling it all over again
she would trade it in
but nobody is feeling sympathetic enough for
that kind of charity
so she will ride it out into the strange night
with some dude speaking french in the passenger seat
seems like hes saying something important
but who the **** knows
she flips him off and turns the radio up
nothing is forever
if she could just stick to the plan
dump the loser's and leeches
find her somebody who speaks the same language
as her crazy good for nothin heart
she could get up outa this
one horse town
go set up in some romantic beach house
and drink margarita's till the world ends
just stick to the plan kiddo
keeps telling herself
as she cozy's up to the french clown
for one last night
just to keep warm
nothing for keeps...right?
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
Hoy que danza en mi cuerpo la pasión de Paolo
y ebrio de un sueño alegre mi corazón se agita:
hoy que sé la alegría de ser libre y ser solo
como el pistilo de una margarita infinita:
oh mujer -carne y sueño-, ven a encantarme un poco,
ven a vaciar tus copas de sol en mi camino:
que en mi barco amarillo tiemblen tus senos locos
y ebrios de juventud, que es el más bello vino.
Es bello porque nosotros lo bebemos
en estos temblorosos vasos de nuestro ser
que nos niegan el goce para que lo gocemos.
Bebamos. Nunca dejemos de beber.
Nunca, mujer, rayo de luz, pulpa blanca de poma,
suavices la pisada que no te hará sufrir.
Sembremos la llanura antes de arar la loma.
Vivir será primero, después será morir.
Y después que en la ruta se apaguen nuestras huellas
y en el azul paremos nuestras blancas escalas
-flechas de oro que atajan en vano las estrellas-,
¡oh Francesca, hacia dónde te llevarán mis alas!
2.8k
In highschool I thought I liked girls
I thought it wasn't right, to even look
that if I tried it would be different, abnormal
I didn't know it was okay
To want to kiss another girl
To touch another girl
That it would be a violation
I wouldn't be liked back
I thought I had to be a certain way
dress a certain way
act a certain way
I didn't wear make up, but also didn't wear masculine clothing
I was just me
I got stares from butch lesbians that were in gangs
I was frightened and alone
"What are you staring at?" if I looked back
Looks based off of intimidation
this wasn't me, this wasn't it
I tried to date men, same ole same ole
video games, boredom,
not having drive
it wasn't interesting, it wasn't making my heart race
going through one motion to another
I tried.
I was told that I was just making it up
That I was pretending
That I was doing it for attention
Fantasizing about female celebrities
if only
I then came out to myself
dated a girl
who wasn't a girl
he was genderqueer
he was trans
and it all began
I was attracted to beyond the gender binary
2 dollar margarita nights
at the gay bar in New York
queers stumbling, fumbling, sweating, dancing
going outside to just
light a cigarette for some pretty girl
connect with eyes
just to talk
just to have a connection
Turns to quick ****** experiences
With a blink of an eye
She kisses me, she wants me
She want's go further
That wasn't me
I don't know you
you don't know my heart
Then I met you
Wrong pronouns at the grocery store
No correction, you know who you are
Questions on identification, even at the gay bar
It's okay, you understand
Under the Christmas lights of my room
in my bed
with your smell left in my sheets
I'm so happy, I'm filled with joy
Tears rushing down my face
I can't believe I'm in love
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 11:22 PM UTC
There is a species of Jellyfish that is immortal
deceased people can still get goosebumps
blind people do not see the color black, they see nothing.
these are the facts that I read as I try to distract myself from thinking about
how you called me three times last night
begging me to answer
hearing my phone cry into the silence my hazy margarita mind has created
facts, facts, facts
immortal Jellyfish
goosebumps
blind
I didn’t answer, I pressed decline and rushed to the bathroom
to gag your memory from my stomach into the porcelain bowl
I fell asleep on the bathroom floor
i awoke in my *****
wishing I would die
with goosebumps
and blind to what was happening to me.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 5:08 PM UTC
Your cooking and your beautiful heart
is not the only thing which keeps us all alive.
Throughout the years you have been through pain
and faced obstacles bringing you restless nights.
You were the one that kept the light in your children's eyes vibrant and bright.
Your heart blossoms with love and spread beneficial energy to those around you.
Nothing is complete or worthwhile without a mother's touch.
Il tuo amore guarisce
Happy birthday in this life time and many more for future times ahead!
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 7:00 PM UTC
And they say she’s got the fellas
Well aint she just a Bella
Wasted in the dawns of time
Another margarita, another lime
But she knows she’s got her mother
Who won’t put up with another
Record score of sixty nine
She keeps them waiting in a line
She won’t let down her guard again
Won’t be easy for another pen
Fifteen, she’s off the rack
Now she’s gotta make it back
Alive, in her tattered dress
Walking alone on the streets a mess
Listening to drunken shouts
Just trying to find her way out
Head up tall
Make sure you don’t fall
Promise yourself you’ll be better
Next time they’ll be no more keggers
Because this girl is not who you are
You don’t ditch your friends for a guy at the bar
It’s time to get your **** together kid
Because next time may not be undid
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 11:48 PM UTC
you get on my last nerve
you never want to talk to me
you tell me i'm your best friend
then you completely blow me off
for someone better
i really want to hate you
we've been friends for too long
but you never notice when i'm angry
you don't care when i'm upset
you're not there when i need you
but oh god
when you're drunk
off of tequila sunrise
and i'm drunk
off of a margarita
i love the way you want me
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Raucous laughter and clinking glasses fill the air, already brimming with the intoxicating scents of ocean air and freshly grilled salmon.
Crab legs crack, revealing succulent white meat and dripping juices down sun burnt chins and salt licked chests.
Seven men, all eating their weight in seafood, happy for the simple joy of being reunited once more.
Margarita, tequila, Corona and more,
I've never felt better, passed out on the floor.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
3 of us.
one at one end of the bar,
the other at the opposite corner,
me in the middle.
we are the ones that
didn't learn from past mistakes.
store clerk, janitor, fortune teller,
Insomniac, lost soul,
who knows.
truth is found in the silence
of minding your own business.
we didn't come here to talk to one another.
the bottle or glass
held with fingers too tightly.
the bottle or glass has a kind heart
understands
this is sanctuary
from memories stitched to bone
like shadows scattering....
(a flash of lightning, a splintering boom)
and then she walks in.
a rift in the barrier of worlds.
she bends the light, deepens the silence.
she spoke with a voice like the morning dove
with a melody that forgets your name.
she glides. each step deliberate, unhurried.
we turn, and bone shadows in a hush
whisper,
" beautiful"
and she knows it
too well.
the dream walker
lifts the veils of moonlit memory
and time unthreads
into the first shiver of love
that lures men to madness.
and now done, suddenly
she turns around,
and walks out the door
(a flash of lightning, a roll of thunder).
the blinding white light
our hollow sky in disarray....
..."bartender, get me another double, and one,
for my 2 friends.
Charlie was in the hospital dying,
unconscious, and he says,
I'll have a margarita."
"hey, I knew Charlie."
"me, too." and then he says,
"my stock broker..."
Jul 14, 2025
Jul 14, 2025 at 10:26 PM UTC
The salt envies my lips,
jealous of your tongue
when it wants more
longing for yours
craving slow soft moist caress
It melts in the sharedness,
sparkles in our breath,
a crystalline melt of desire
stretching the flavor in timelessness
fusing in sweet a figure of eight
of our tongues’ thirst
It speaks our secret language
teaching new grammar;
it weaves our thoughts in scarves
spilling cool ambrosia,
warm in our veins
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 8:46 AM UTC
They always tell kids
"Just wait until you're ready"
Really wish I did.
Don't know why with you
You asked: "is this your first time?"
Face down on your bed.
In the north of Spain
Would travel to you again
Still sends me postcards.
The worst thing happened,
Never really felt the same.
Changed my whole world up.
My first ******
I will love you forever
Think I was on top.
You were just one night
Ripped apart ******* ******
You weren't very good.
Bad night in April.
Had *** with an old friend,
The absolute worst.
Eating bagel bites
He told me that he loved me,
I really didn't.
Margarita mix
The next day you left for France
You were really big
Have this **** buddy
Only a daytime thing though,
Sees my whole body.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 6:04 PM UTC
As Baudelaire said:
"Be always drunk,
on wine, poetry, virtue"
or what-have-you.
And after sobering
from aurelian dawns
and whiskey-drenched stars,
I find solace in tipsiness
on irreverent magic eyes
from the bottom of a margarita
or a paint-stained enigma
from behind a glass of red.
Slowly, carefully, languidly,
Quietly.
Flirting with possibilities
of being drunk once more.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 4:37 AM UTC
Margarita está linda la mar,
y el viento,
lleva esencia sutil de azahar;
yo siento
en el alma una alondra cantar;
tu acento:
Margarita, te voy a contar
un cuento:Esto era un rey que tenía
un palacio de diamantes,
una tienda hecha de día
y un rebaño de elefantes,
un kiosko de malaquita,
un gran manto de tisú,
y una gentil princesita,
tan bonita,
Margarita,
tan bonita, como tú.Una tarde, la princesa
vio una estrella aparecer;
la princesa era traviesa
y la quiso ir a coger.La quería para hacerla
decorar un prendedor,
con un verso y una perla
y una pluma y una flor.Las princesas primorosas
se parecen mucho a ti:
cortan lirios, cortan rosas,
cortan astros. Son así.Pues se fue la niña bella,
bajo el cielo y sobre el mar,
a cortar la blanca estrella
que la hacía suspirar.Y siguió camino arriba,
por la luna y más allá;
más lo malo es que ella iba
sin permiso de papá.Cuando estuvo ya de vuelta
de los parques del Señor,
se miraba toda envuelta
en un dulce resplandor.Y el rey dijo: -«¿Qué te has hecho?
te he buscado y no te hallé;
y ¿qué tienes en el pecho
que encendido se te ve?».La princesa no mentía.
Y así, dijo la verdad:
-«Fui a cortar la estrella mía
a la azul inmensidad».Y el rey clama: -«¿No te he dicho
que el azul no hay que cortar?.
¡Qué locura!, ¡Qué capricho!...
El Señor se va a enojar».Y ella dice: -«No hubo intento;
yo me fui no sé por qué.
Por las olas por el viento
fui a la estrella y la corté».Y el papá dice enojado:
-«Un castigo has de tener:
vuelve al cielo y lo robado
vas ahora a devolver».La princesa se entristece
por su dulce flor de luz,
cuando entonces aparece
sonriendo el Buen Jesús.Y así dice: -«En mis campiñas
esa rosa le ofrecí;
son mis flores de las niñas
que al soñar piensan en mí».Viste el rey pompas brillantes,
y luego hace desfilar
cuatrocientos elefantes
a la orilla de la mar.La princesita está bella,
pues ya tiene el prendedor
en que lucen, con la estrella,
verso, perla, pluma y flor.Margarita, está linda la mar,
y el viento
lleva esencia sutil de azahar:
tu aliento.Ya que lejos de mí vas a estar,
guarda, niña, un gentil pensamiento
al que un día te quiso contar
un cuento.
1.9k
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
fingertips trace the
splintered podium.
clear my throat,
once,
twice.
"We shoulduh' seen this coming."
great opener.
**"Our end was scored
by symphonies of sitcoms,
reality television, coffeehouse blenders,
and fanatical braking.
Our pride in resilience was the
spark that lit the powder keg.
Foreigners couldn't stop us,
for we stopped letting 'em in years ago.
Time couldn't stop us,
for our bodies are made of plastic,
and words don't dent us,
for our emotions are backed by
the most stubborn of metals.
We broke love when we were still young.
All us boys were aiming for quick fixes,
and all you girls were aiming for margarita mixes.
Ladies decided they wanted to nest around the
smoking age,
and if they were attractive enough,
us boys bit.
We all got divorced.
We all got into politics.
Some of us died for a country,
but none of us are sure why.
Some of us ran from debt,
some recorded folk songs on laptops,
some sexed their way out,
some drank themselves to death.
We shoulduh' seen this coming.
But we didn't, so that makes you and I, the idiots.
The smart ones had foresight,
and departed us early.
Now we idiots look to the murderous sky,
and wait."**
all eyes,
all on me,
all eyes,
hanging
all over me.
milk the silence.
i raise my arms up,
as though the crowd is crucifying me.
they want to finish their burgers.
they want to stroke each other's egos.
they want to pass the blame on some
distant land,
and stick boots up ***** and wave a few flags.
**"So civilization doesn't get to rust,
it goes out in a flash and is carried away as dust.
Mankind annihilates itself in a fit of boredom.
Get stoked for the funeral pyre."**
all eyes,
all on the ground.
all skin,
all plastic skin did melt.
all forgotten dreams,
all torn from hidden seams.
all the thin, the fat, the republican, the democrat,
all the white, the black, the chinese,
the arabs, the jews, the druggies,
the christians, the monkeys, mtv stars,
toilet seats, pamphlets,
all the newsreels, dvds,
collector's editions, suvs,
all fuse together,
all in one immaculate heat.
no one even got a chance to applaud.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 9:57 PM UTC
Sitting at my lonely barside
I kneel before the patron saint
Of castaways,
And raise but two fingers.
The peanuts and peasants
Have much in common,
They are roasted, salted,
Glazed with a succor
No sweeter than savage starlight
They serve to compliment
The fine layer of salt
On the rim of my cocktails
The liquor as **** as their company.
This is the rite of reverence
That droops my eyelids
This is the gleaning genuflection
Of the day's stale bread.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:55 AM UTC
Waves from the beach match my waves for my drink
The waitress comes over and asks what’s my order
I said I can’t choose “I’m feeling like there’s clouds above me,
It’s been a rough few days and these double hotel rooms are bland and lonely.”
“Not a problem, sir. I know just what to get to make you feel *****
She comes back with a Hawaiian margarita.
It came with an umbrella which I set aside while saying thank you, Senorita.
I guzzled down the drink to reach the tequila faster,
But the wind picks up and it looks like a disaster.
I ask for one more, with the umbrella.
This fairy godmother returns with another margarita.
The buzz has transformed me like I’m Cinderella.
I leave a 20 at the table and walk towards the beach, ignoring the families with kids who all they do is screech.
Clutching both umbrellas, I walk to the shore
One of God’s many gifts for us to explore.
I never noticed how nice he made the decore.
Tequila is the only alcohol that’s an upper, or so I’ve been told.
But I enter the water even though it was cold
What happened next though was a story previously told,
My umbrellas caught air like Mary Poppins,
As I floated along the coast listening to Phil Collins.
The speakers down below blast the drum section from that one song,
And I stayed up there for I don’t know how long,
But when I descended,
My pain was suspended and my emotions were splendid.
So next time, when your mind feels cloudy and your thoughts are rowdy
Ask for a drink with an umbrella
You’ll soon find yourself smiling, cheesing more than mozzarella.
Sep 18, 2023
Sep 18, 2023 at 10:29 PM UTC
Step one is waking up
and writing about your day.
I want to talk about language,
your mothers cheapest wine and worst blueberry jam
staining all your best clothes with verses.
Vignettes appearing all over
the rented tuxedo from the wedding.
Dark ink and oil separates in a margarita glass
soaking into the cuts on your dry lips,
dusting your hair and the spaces
between each individual vertebrae.
Syllables dripping from the tip of your nose
and fingernails
leave novels on the linoleum and
books of sentence fragments on the hardwood.
Poets bleed into cracks on fine china
pooling into poems.
Space heaters emit quotes from dead people
I sign each word when
the analogue clock ticks,
each poem adding another minute to the day.
I’m always hoping I can squeeze in a few more hours
so I can watch the ****** orange sky
with grass in my shirt,
the Pixies mumbling in the background
leaving lyrics trapped in my teeth.
Anthologies of letters
between man and his dog
hidden onomatopoeias in every backyard.
I'll write you 364 days of the year
too many paragraphs to fill the barbecue.
Burn through pages with paper matches
making enough poems to last a decade.
Transfer phrases into the soles of my shoes,
I want to walk on water,
the "W" curled up beside my baby toe.
Every inch of the fabric we call skin,
stamps and ink pads,
turn everything to poetry.
Despite seas of fog
where breathing stops the words
from forming in your throat,
the only way to express is by experience
and frantic fountain pens.
Smoke on the balcony
writes starry sonnets about the girl in your bed
lining the waxing moon with poetry,
a **** homage to Shakespeare himself.
Serendipity;
finding something good without looking for it.
A feeling I have encountered
keeping my breathing sporadic,
rarely setting me on fire.
Living Chinese finger traps
burning blue poems on my palms
splotching the back of my neck
licking up my thigh and hips.
Let me throw away my common sense,
the final step of becoming a poet.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
My mum tells me to be careful as I close the front door
Every footstep the tick of a bomb about to go off
And I know that she will worry until she hears me return
That maybe this time I wasn’t careful enough
But I know Careful
Careful is a woman who walks in our skin when the door shuts behind us
Faceless and watchful
With keys jammed between each finger
And her honey voice is flowing through a perpetual conversation with the home screen of her phone
Her gait wide and her hood up,
hair down but tucked away
She never looks up
only shifts her eyes from left to right on a pendulum trajectory determined to read the cadence of the shadows
Like they are palms or tea leaves or a CCTV in operation sign on the front of a shop window
On the walk home
She is always moving
A waterfall rushing down the steepest drop to get back home with all her foundations in tact
Careful is always waiting for the other shoe to fall
She is texting texting texting details of her plans
Where she has been
where she is going
what is the license of the taxi she is in
Are the doors locked as soon as she shuts them?
How salty is too salty for a margarita or a tequila or a glass of water
Can anyone vouch for the milliseconds that her drink was out of her sight?
She has a pair of earphones attached to nothing jutting from her ears
and her key clawed hands wrapped tightly around a can of pepper spray
And her car is parked right outside the building
Careful is always a woman living in a war zone
where the enemies can be the ones that she has trusted most
Or strangers that cast long shadows
She is a landmine that is always in danger of being stepped on
She is made into a three star salad that the jury reject because she was underdressed
Overexposed like the photos that Careful should never have sent
Because even she knows that she cannot exist
A woman is always careful
But never careful enough.
Mar 28, 2018
Mar 28, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC