Sangria Bloodshed

Wineskin drippings
plastered across the front page,
spitting words I do not understand.
Americans curse in letters
three inches high
as photojournalists wait
for the proper light
to snap Pulitzer Prize winning stuff.

The blizzard drifts
from jungle sweat to banks
of powdered snow for the junkies
on Wall Street,
the New York cartels…
money and hype
and bullshit.

The cat knocks my arm,
spilling my wine and soaking
the page in sangrian ooze,
wiping out some sidebar story
about the families
and the victims.

Note to self: Next time,
be more careful with the wine.