I walk what once was dirt streets pocked with hoof and the brown heel of the little Mexican boys that pulled the teamster carts down to the muddy river to water the horses and wash the dust of the King's Road off the chucks. I look west just as the sun sets- that's where tomorrow will be. It's here with brown bag thoughts on S. Alamo- one sloshing step in front of one sloshing drink- Hey Kerouac weren't you here and said this place a jungle with little Mexican teens doing "it" amongst the bushes. It's all so real you thought at the site of chipped paint pink and yellow houses chipped like mashed avocados- ahuacatl- you fucking nut. German cattle barons built their little Rhein, a little kingdom 'round the river that in forty years time would see its down. First the lights dimmed red and the whores moved in, and then the working stiffs six families to one house, than the fags and some slacker with a paint can who priced out the working stiff mexicans. Now the condos come where 80 years ago I'd shoot my gun in a stumble towards the moon that now rises up I-35.
