P-city

been taking cabs in panama for five weeks now, hopped up baby toyotas retrofitted with propane two stroke bangers, that burp into second like a drunk forklift spitting a thick sugary smoke. every neighborhood down here sounds like a tribe in africa. Kunduroo is the worst, Its got streets like broken ladies, bombed out shells and kids that run down the side streets chasing a dog while beating a flaming tire with yesterdays stick. They call it hollywood, and the guns bang and the whores swoon, and it all sucks in at the waist, panamas pristine relics, decay and sequined squalor. boulevards frought with bloated night gods, and gold colored girls that I wish I could own from the inside out. I been good taking it light, eating pigs knuckles and sancocho, a chicken soup thats made with yucca. the casino takes the black seas seat and I finally see cards for what they are another jackoff keeping me from the real thing. another flat back, another frothing gash, another filthy portion. I had a small seizure on an all in call with ace king suited. I watched the whole green and gold room gasp for air, like a colapsed lung at the bottom of the ocean, and ave D came to caress me back. Back clear as a bell, snorting and shooting and begging. she had a wet newspaper stuck in one nostril and the metalic drip in the other all of it making its way kindly down the busted blue trachia of a dead child. I think its time to quit