When Dada Samba died, we all stood up out of our seats
because to watch a legend convulse on the mat
as his brain farted to a smoking halt
—all the synapses fired off like trails of black powder
and his eyes bulged out from under his mask,
grapes being squeezed through the slits of a shower drain—
it was a real treat.
He faded right in front of us,
a weak little fire snuffed between two wet fingers,
it’s something you don’t want to miss at all.
Really gets ratings like a motherfucker.
The Great Gorgias’s Lou Thesz Press went awful wrong somewhere.
He soared across the ring, leaped like a mountain cat,
so his legs were spread, a throbbing letter V.
When he hit Samba, the warrior luchador’s heart crapped right out,
stopped like a kitten getting pulverized into mist by a bullet train,
and we all thought it was great.
I was all “me gusta”
but the displaced Mexican’s atrioventricular valve
went on strike in front of 6.5 million
and everything stopped
because his heart outright told him
esta mierda’s for the birds