Chuy, My Wingman

Poetry

Mi compa, Chuy Christ,
came over last night
wearing his trademark
Birkenstock huaraches
while I was playing X-Box.

He came to tell me
ominously
it was “time.”

Confused, I asked, “Wha’da Ya mean it’s ‘time’?”

Fondling himself, He replied,
“It’s time to go out and party, holmes!”

“I made reservations at our ‘local
gentlemen’s club’,” he continued, giggling.

“Aight. But brush out your hair and beard, ése.
You got some green shit tangled in there.”

“Oh, my bad,” He replied

So I put on my Jesus-Is-My-Homeboy T-shirt and rolled out.
He turned some water into Hennessey,
Moét, and Hypnotic,
I watched Him take Incredible Hulk shot
after Incredible Hulk shot to the noggin.

Passing out on me,
I left Him laid out in the gutter,
took his broad home,
and on the way Ms. Magdalene told me
He talks to His Old Man and Dove
saying somethin’ ‘bout
His job’s done.

He’s rebelling, looking for freedom,
and she’s worried.

She asked me to do something.

I will…eventually.
Right now,
He makes me look good
with the ladies.

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