Burden of Proof

I’m three sheets to nowhere
                              listening to Exile on Main Street
wishing I was in Todos Santos
                                                reading Rimbaud
              & wondering how to pay for a
                      big plate of nopales
already eaten by the time & the distance & the
eternal Q & A session (listening to
              a little primordial surf doo-wop
wishing a truckload backing up in the driveway
                                                but louder than that
                      w/technicolor passion
& personalized letterhead engraved in wet sand
beneath the wheels of Blakean rooftops in the rain
              as we sit down to a plate of ribs & red soda water
the twisted silverware harkening back to that
                                                heaven of the Jews
obscured by the fog that pulls Santa Cruz out to sea
                              the fog that tastes like tequila
                                                                distilled from seaweed
              & Japanese slang