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.