Belize

By Paul Cameron Brown

Giving myself permission to write- points from Ciudad Juarez as well as the compass where taboos complete bayonet-sized memories a tadpole of doubt gleaned from shallow Canadian upbringing sojourning in the South. A stranger came- his beard the Columbian hillcountry mustachioed, the voice trailed off whisper-thin, steeper than riverine jungles, the Black Mamba or boomslang before brief rictus of pain. I am writing this with an eye on fortune, it's not the cantina is dry just walls above this cot squeeze the soul like a padre's blessing between rosary beads and the day is hot. Extend a cigarette, fumble another Spanish syllable pretend houngans are hombres Hidalgo just another green wine. This utterance is mutilating and paper scrolls are an oath to take their toll pockmarking my thumbprints forcing blood. Buenos dias, snor, only don't say S a s k a t c h e w a n like light over mountains it's of little importance, really, won't, change the cabfare one i o t a. The sea may cough little stars or an emerald coffin sit like a lampshade somethings go on... Begging your pardon, ma'am this train would do well to leave within the hour and the ferry from Topolobampo Out of persistence to form has never arrived early. "Piratas ingles" read the mural now I know seedy tropical ports harbour wayfarers like the Marlboro man adjusting his image, (inspiration may well be poetic but the instrument's blunt) bare feet the colour or lanterns, white ducks pressed too much around lean shanks and a visage to trouble Satan Taking a profit, Mozart up in smoke down the tubes water reverses itself, runs counterlockwise impecunious in this juxtaposition of a hemisphere. Poor Mexico-far from God & so near the United States a snippet of history remembered though the Gadsen Purchase seems irrelevant. How a propos & natty too the moon is a hummingbird & painted porcelain flask for you. Backstreets a la seduction this demimonde, a whole continent as intrigue do twin fists pounding on a door resemble gunfire especially at dawn or is that just the mule so obstinate in you - the poor creatures pressed into service, litter the landscape bedbugs thrown from cars. At the Ponce de Leon adrenalin with white caps comes up bare as language forced into riot, not a humble metaphor in sight. the occasional half-witted vowel staggering under the onslaught pirouetted clamouring about the edge -no easy familiarity here with the English language.