casco viejo and steps on the hill

--based on true events.

the sun broke through an open window this morning and seared my skin. uncontested, i rose to my feet and put on some levis and a white button down shirt. from there, i reached for the kitchen. pancake batter covered bananas were on the menu - a self-made recipe.

out the door and into the street, i look both ways and head into the jungle. i give my change to the poor and my bills to the rich. i drink a bad coffee in the park and watch a woman get slapped and thrown into a car door. noone does anything so i walk the other way. a pigeon shits on me off an over-hang. "its karma," i say to myself, "i should have shield my eyes.

i hop on a bus with nowhere to go and end up in the industries. it's a desolate part of town, cars wizz by and skin my teeth. by 11am i'm hungry again. i step into the nearest kitchen, full of grit, grime and poverty. it smells good in here.

i must have ate a bad borrrito because upon my return home, i'm glued to the porcelain. i imagine my ass hair curling over like a-thousand happy hands griping the dried piss from the seven last men - like mustard layed on thick, it sticks.

wet-paper-bag stomach, night falls and i head to the bar.
"a beer!," a good-for-nothing demands, slamming his fist into the wooden counter-top, sticky and puddles. "a beer!," again. the bartender succumbs with an awkward smile. not twenty minutes later and a fight breaks loose round' back. blood and scurvy. a man is left for dead on the tile with a broken bottle in his hand. i look over my shoulder and take another drink.

it's panama city.