Friday, December 28, 2007
We were on the ridge of that soup bowl called the Mexican Gulf, one of those geriatric wards called a vacation getaway. The skyline was marked with the sun now like an egg yolk for the sea, and lined with bopping, fleshy bald heads, slicked back with sunscreen and raw like pimples ready to pop. Chefs slapped cheesy spread and salsa onto nacho treats, old women sucked on daiquiris as if sucking sap through a straw. This is where the old close their mouths in on death, the homily of sun hats and palms as tattered alms; licking their bracken fingertips like shrimp dipped in hot sauce.