On the ledges of Santa Barbara's rock
the neighbourhoods subside in the passages,
the one horse streets that furtively follow
their sins through the ochre dust and cactus,
below the watchful white eye of the godfather's iglesia
and the calling of old Spanish affairs.
Ducados bars cut with burnt coffee,
brandy and the scorching babble of bebedores
with scored and roasted faces,
their gravel throated oaths spike
the native heats dry murder with laughter.
The cool facades in the deep shade of sub tropical gothic
or the South's poor man's Gaudi speak no evil
as the smoke lingers in the passageway
in the shape of a sudden disappearance.
The siesta like a spell stills the air of all distraction ,
the escape routes whisper to the oncoming night,
where the high moon picks out strays like a spotlight
warning the shadows of North African sailors,
skulking quarryless, not to move
until the lamp swings, the bolt slides.
Then you hear voices, prayre,
a skirmish of tongues,
a flick knife,
the hand,
the click of a heel,
flamenco !
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