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.