The
road north was just like the road south
only
played in reverse. I rolled in at
twilight
feeling like Cortez—a real killer.
Nothing
had changed.
There were candles, as I
recall,
&
a window painted black
reflecting the end of not this world
but the next
like a soundproof San
Bernadino
in the cradle of Nowhere
or the eucalyptus alleyway
& the steps to the
beach below?
On the corner there’s a little dive called The
Island. A string of tiny yellow bulb
lights, like xmas tree lights, are hung over the door which is painted
red. There’s a small sooty cactus to the
right of the entrance, cigarette butts & bottle caps in its thorns or
spikes or needles—whatever you call them—& when shadows fall against it you
can almost hear a sigh.
