A drifter stand on Route 15
The Sonoran Desert

All around Bobby BeBadd
Hot Asphalt
Under his feet

The sun parching his Gringo skin
Skag soothing his soul

But Bobby wants
Water

Shade

A cold cerveza

More Culiacan heroin

And Mazatlan.

A coastal city.

THe magic of its name.

Mazatlan.

Old Aztec magic.

Nahuatal for abundant deer.

He knows nothing of Mazatlan.

Knowing nothing,

Mazatlan draws him closer
Like a senorita’s siren song.
If Bobby BeBadd was a child he might have be lost,
but there was no being lost here.

Route 15 went north or south.
Not east west.
Only North and south.
Skirting the Pacific

With Wintah far from here.
Black glassed cars speed by

Buses roll by.

Children wave bye bye.

In the desert only fools stood in the sun

The sun rose higher.

Toasting his flesh brown.
Where Bobby BeBadd was was where he was.
Hot as hell south of the Rio Grande

Two college girls stop.

A Caprice with Arizona Plates

The back seat for Bobby.

Tina and Lena bound to San Blas for the surf.
Mazatlan.

Only three hours away.

America more distant

Every second.

Freer every mile.

The AC good.

Out of the sun better.

Tina and Lena stop on the Avenue de Mar.

Adios.

Bobby BeBadd on the boardwalk

The Pacific stretching to the forever horizon

Diesel on the salt air.

Across the Avenue de Mar
A cafe
Food and beer.
Bobby sits
A young one-armed waitress asks what he wants.
“Un Cerveza y un camera.”

The cafe is also a hotel.
She smiles.

Name Maria. After a first sip of Coruna

Bobby is home.

Nowhere he has been before.

Someplace of none of his dreams.

Away from the desert

Away from the USA

Away from Wintah

Mazatlan
Mexico.

Viva la Revolution