Winter 1995 • Vol. XVII No. 1 Poetry |

Vortex of Indian Fevers

Remember this first: Shit don't flow uphill. Robert Stewart If you got the dinero, I got my Camaro. Freddy Fender I. Over a hundred and five degrees for the third straight day. I placed my face upon the icy grate of our second-hand fridge next to two senile grapefruits. Blue and hairy with splotches of mold, they could've been the scrotum of Tutankhamen. I bought them the month before, vowing firm flesh more solid than my sweating nose, flash-frozen to iron near King Tut's nuts.   Somewhere galaxies of angels were laughing at me. I was stuck in some Roadrunner cartoon and it wasn't funny at all. Breaking free, I stamped my feet and hopped to the sink to warm water my nose and wished I could go sit and swill in some lonely bar with the ghosts of my ghosts and taste the cool juice of fear on their lips but my old lady was driving me to the hospital when she got back from teaching the disruptive kids of dysfunctional parents. II. Sweat-soaked and

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