south, all things go south by J.C. Mari

the salt-water smell's
been harassing you all morning,
shamelessly,
like the beggared children of lepers.

in front and ahead
faded asphalt cooks
black rivers drowning the day
under this bastard sun.

a quick glance to the right
and there it is,
as sudden as death by lightning,
extended, limp-blue
languid,
almost convalescent,
muttering impotent curses, senseless threats.

minutes and hours tossed together
like an insipid salad
and then you're there:

a couple of crumbling structures
built by the Spanish
and one
almost invisible sea-side hotel.

only a piss-stop
on the way to other somewheres
there's nothing here.

parrot-painted pot-bellied whores
look at you like carrion birds.

sitting at the bar
you can still hear the sea
much darker now and
louder and
more fully recovered calling you out
to the alley behind the whorehouse.

it wants a brawl with knives.

J.C. Mari resides in Florida. He has authored the collection "the sun sets like faces fade right before you pass out".