37 Degrees Celcius Below the Equator

imageA belly full of coldhotair and nothing more.
A mind crowded with empty lusts and dried out libations from the night before.
The winter winds from back home miss their opportunity to reach the lost ones below the equator.
They’ve just missed us.
And so we sweat in silence and misleading solitude in this summer nonsense, waiting for a piece of yesterday’s home to find its way here and settle on our parched coffee flavored tongues. The taste of freedom. I sort of remember the feeling from a middaydream in Pearland.

Now half a world away, there’s no electrical power in site, no running water to inspire us, no cool breeze to forget about the skeletons. This is South America in the summertime it seems and the people are turning. Some for the coast and others stubbornly root themselves in this cloud of intense heat.

An orgy of men mixed with women and men too hot to speak and too proud to shed their heavy layers of clothing pass by in sweltering silence.  And so we stare straight away, gnawing on our espresso stained parched tongues. Unvoiced, unheard and thirsty for a cold one.
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Have you looked up lately?
We are perfectly enveloped by misplaced beautifully schizophrenic concrete constructed buildings. An unplanned mixture of architecture from an ancient age of kings, and the queens of the 80’s. Evita there. The Artist Formally Known as Prince there.
I search WebMD to make sure I haven’t turned completely sour. Turns out, there’s no telling until its too late.

Now its the hot darkness of a latin summer that tickles our minds, now full of locked up courage and important things to say,  but no ear to make it out.
Yet there’s a numbing comfort that unapologetically squeals in my head, just behind the place where no one can make it out except you now.

We find ourselves in a lost kingdom of ruins. Hot, hot even still. And it’s only January.

The best part of it all, of all the absurdity, is the journey towards the beer. Back to freedom.

And so I leave a trail of thick sweat stains planted in the concrete jungle of Buenos Aires to encourage the thirsty misplaced youths towards the great and powerful boOZe.

Towards our freedom.

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News from the Mongoose Den vol. xxxvii

Aside

“Forehead to forehead
we stand on a hill
with no view. The car
a few paces back, in a thicket
violent with
an absorbed sunset.
The stream gurgles
in place, in an ecstasy of hands.”

— Ana Bozicević, The Night Meal

Join us today (Monday, August 12th) at 8PM when the Mongoose versus Cobra Reading Series Number Ten will bring us Ana Bozicević, Dan Magers, and Sampson Starkweather, hitchhiking across space and time to learn new things about us and about themselves.

On August 14th we will welcome the fine folks from Infamous Brewery. Meet the crew who Infamously brews while you sample any of five of their finest stews.

Also please note a special one-off book party on Monday, August 19th at 8PM when we we will celebrate the release of The Pomegranate King, a collection of essays by Nishta Mehra. Nishta will read from and sign copies of her new book. Light fare will be provided.

This Tuesday, Imperial Andy will celebrate the Mayan New Year (how do you say Auld Lange Syne in Mayan?!) with his historic cocktail specials, and Jason “That Seventies Guy” Parker will be back on August 18th to give us his View from the Back of a Buick Roadmaster.

In the meantime, come on by our safe quarters and have a pretzel, recently named one of Houston Press’s Hundred Favorite Dishes!

Yours in the Bond,

Charles