Acapulco again. With Taco Gail and

Tequila Tootsie again. And all the

while a shady, thick-of-accent and

short-of-tallness lady talked. She

talked of cycles in the thousands

and tens thereof; talked of sin;

talked of the time she and Taco Gail

carried Tequila Tootsie (semi-conscious

and semi-un) into the library for the volumes;

talked of night, and day and night; talked

until the botanas and enchiladas arrived

with bowls of chilled chilis and stars.

Taco Gail taught me to fly three days

after I met her. Tequila Tootsie reminds

me of me in some sort of female way.

Acapulco (which is always sunny even

when the tourists don't know that it is) is

like whatever it is that is the center

of a galaxy -- that place/thing everything

else is fleeing. Acapulco is like

celebrating your birthday on a

beautiful morning in the wrong month.

Acapulco is a Lithuanian Lutheran

saying, 'never confuse balance

with symmetry.'

Acapulco is a drifter, a dancer, a drunk.

Acapulco is all that and Taco Gail and

Tequila Tootsie always see life differently.

And as for the slurry-speeched and accented

shady lady, the shadows spared us further

enlightenment by reclaiming her somewhere

between Tootsie's third margarita

and the Lithuanian's refritas.