black mowlers EL SALVADOR

I took a walk down the black sand beach to get away from a pregnant woman vomitting up pilsner and camarron ceviche under a palm. el zonte is a stretch of cooled volcanic ash pebbles with heaps of pocked mowlers like negro teeth holding down the jaw and bookending the surf north and south. a red fox nestles into the black soot like a mother tortuga. white vulture meat where baby obelix shells beg for sunlight and a moments grace. this is just another outstretched assasins cousin, another clutch of the pacific, another el salvadoran chico malo, another death a bit prettier than the last, flossed and ready for desert. I cant fly fast enough every stoop and stair breaks my bones like a tournaquet made of marble boulders. every bend in the road a possible break in my ribs. I want peace and this land keeps threatening disaster.
“I’ll buy that car” thats what a blond streaked kiwi surf kid twenty at best, offered through the crack in my triangle twister, when I pulled off the pan american twenty five kilometers south of libertad. the black tunnels of rock blind me every ten feet, the borders taunt 12 guage mortar matrimonials, and I keep going south, like a mantra, or a beatles refrain.”she loves you yeah yeah yeah” the kids doesnt see my mouth move, or maybe it hasnt. he’s got blue eyes and is wave dumb. thinking he can master surf and spectacle with charm and youth. maybe he’ll have better luck than I did and die before he hits thirty. die before all possibility of being a cannon blast, or a nyc night, or a begginers luck fades into punch in punch out steps, marching away from the shore, drowning in a bed of rubble called lost. argentina feels like a mother and family to go. a whole adolesance, and Im just born.”i’ll let you know” I tell him, el salvador bares her teeth at me. My testicles shrink into the spare tire, I have the suspicion theres no jack in sight, and the screw tightens more than a thumb twist.
I watch the kid pass his short board to a brown shadow ontop of the chicken bus and the black plume of crow feathers bang a diesel drum as he splits.
I wonder how much more I can take, how many more nights I can beat back this central belt of conective tissue between california and panama. The sea is back like an angry woman claiming her due, and the soot sand makes a fine burial cloth for me. the children cry for dark brown kids that dissapear into the whitewater. a cliff bilges and I am gone, gone again deep into the earth, gone again a dot on the horizon, gone again lost in a serial mission. gone quietly into the swell