The Beat Poet Celebrates Cinco de Mayo

I arrived at Cinco de Mayo

with a soul like a chipped margarita glass—salted,

questionable,

probably shouldn’t be trusted with citrus and salt-lined libations.

The night pulsed like a neon mariachi dream,

trumpets blaring truths I wasn’t equipped to process,

and somewhere—

somewhere between the second and fourth taco—

I found God in a squeeze bottle of salsa verde.

“Oh man,” I whispered to no one

and everyone,

“I am culturally appreciating so hard right now.”

Some dude named Chad—

or perhaps the spirit of Chad—

handed me a sombrero

with the solemnity of a passing of the torch,

as if I had been chosen

by forces greater than guacamole.

I wore it.

Of course I wore it.

The tequila spoke in tongues:

lime is temporary, chips and salsa are eternal.

A woman laughed like a piñata mid-impact,

candy spilling from her joy,

and I thought—

this is it,

this is the rhythm of existence,

this is the universe saying

“Have another margarita slushy shot .”

I did.

The mariachi band became philosophers—

tiny mustachioed Kierkegaards

strumming existential dread

in E minor.

I wept.

Told Chad he was my best friend.

Friendship is fleeting.

Then, I wept even more.

Not for Mexico,

not for America,

but for the fragile tortilla of the human condition

folded too tightly around its fillings.

Someone yelled, “Shots!”

and I said, “Yes!”

because saying no is for the uninitiated,

the sober,

the tragically aligned with tomorrow.

The night spiraled—

a salsa-stained carousel of meaninglessness

and mild indigestion.

And as the dawn crept in,

soft and judgmental,

I awoke, hazy but lucid.

I removed the sombrero-like a crown

I had not earned

and placed it gently on the empty pillow

next to me.

Cinco de Mayo,

you reckless muse,

you lime-slick philosopher—

I came searching for truth

and found instead a receipt.

$177 charged to my Visa?

How? What?

Reality spiraled.

Memory faded in.

Chad, you dick.