Jeff Weddle		a few coronas before leaving   soft summernight of neighbors across the street man laughter and woman laughter and children, oblivious, riding through on bicycles big as dreams —whatcha doin' Kelly?—nothin!— as though nothing existed but them and this moment and what's more true than that? soft moist night hot with spiders building castles on the porch, genius engineers guided by nothing but ten million years of ancestors —yes, boy, good, spin out just a bit more, there!— as around the corner spins a lady on her bike, no child she, nor spider, sensible reflector winking red as she corners and, for the moment, is gone. darkness broken by life, impertinent and greedy twinkling under bashful heaven while I read books and brood about kerouac's fellaheen mexico a thousand miles south and west sinking soon to its own dark night, and gay brown ladies, senoritas, wondering what the other life is, never knowing I was ever born, and I am drinking coronas, a six pack with number two half gone, gwen gone with another, bless her, she tried to fetch me to the party across the way. I bet you can get this stuff on the cheap in nogales sonora or down in the yucatan  or that nameless town where george drove pancho, toothless, footless, screaming tacate! at every billboard, barreling six hours down country to family unseen for a decade, who took in the travelers like they were both family. soft, soft night of no decision, soft aching night, last chance night for adventure and that great infinite starlit blanket casting adoration forever and forever on the journey and the journeyers. soft night of pain and fear of shame and terror, of hope and no hope, of making your own breaks and taking them where you find them, of following where they lead.		Tattoo     Nobody knew Big Mike was dead as Nadine sat there with her new tattoo, a crimson heart, and she twirled her hair along the index finger of her right hand. The tattoo was on her left shoulder and it was small and still smarted from the needle. Nobody knew Big Mike was dead and the regulars drank their beer though it was flat and weak and they drank deliberate, slow and sorry, and waited for something to happen or nothing to happen and Nadine sat there waiting for something too as the blood dried and the flies circled and Big Mike was dead and the day was bright and in the streets some men destroyed worlds and some men begged for mercy and some just gave up while Nadine twisted her hair and Big Mike no longer cared whether she would beg him to stay or just let him go. And he would never see the tattoo he'd always wanted, but never quite could convince her to suffer.