PLEASE HELP BLUE PRESS STAY AFLOAT

Thursday, July 11, 2013

The Poet as Scenario (A preliminary map of the Metaphor)

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.