The power of his delusions

could be traced to one too

many nights spent in Voodoo

Lounges drinking flaming shots

of tequila azul and mescal,

always demanding the worm

at the bottom of the bottle he

chewed into small pieces that

reproduced in his wet brain

until all the grey matter looked

like wormwood gone to a dry rot

that stank of cactus pulp and corpse

flowers in full bloom. His life

was about what you would expect

from a guy who began his career

as a poster child for Death,

with naturally concave cheeks,

purple lips and snake bitten eyes

that came from parents who played

with reptiles and who fucked on

the floor under a blood red moon,

the curse of a wronged woman upon

them.  Still, even now, when the visions

overcame him, he could speak in

tongues with such conviction and

unbridled emotion, he could hold

an enormous room captive, make

the people inside inert as living things

in dead bodies, their eyes affixed on

who knew what.