Soneto de Los Bandidos Yanquis en la Isla de Ometepe

FB_IMG_1466654442692Jesus on the guard tower watching

Drunken predator-poets on the porch

Saw Eddie lose his teeth the night before

A real three-legged dog night.

Walking Willie stumbles into the corral

Heading to blow up the arsenal

Diablo Woman watches the front gate

Her hands kneading arsenic into bread

Intoxicated, street-walking whore

Feels a bite taken out of her ass

Then gives herself out of love for money

On her way to Canadian Margaritas happy hour.

Bombs exploding in churches and cathedrals

The retired virgin Magdalena shuttles diplomacy

Between El Capitan Morgan and La Flor de Cana

While the Holy Spirit feels up her chalice.

Over the agua de Lago Nicaragua

White caps slap against ship’s bow

All contraband donated to la policia nacionales

To the isle of fucked-up poems and transvestite kisses

Wake up to chickens scratching on the floor

Under the bed, hiding from la senora’s stew pot

Teenaged cock crowing the instant coffee blues

Another day in Cordoba’s paradise.

Walking Willie heads for Taguizapa Beach

Eddie, now steady, with extricated chompers

We head into la brezas down by la playa

Through banana jungles and mango hideouts

Fishing families steal dinner from the sea

Steady Eddie claps to Walking Willie’s ay-yi-yi-yi

While a 50’s squeezebox screeches us tunes

From Old Mexico, Nicaragua and Memphis, Tennessee.

Under the roof of Ometepe’s 800-year old tree

We feel the energy of ancient warrior blood

Spilled upon the soil of the slopes of Concepcion

Weapons, bones, armor and teeth washed away to sea.

Walking Willie moves, or, he stumbles away

“Mas cerveza, senorita. But first I must pee.”

Into the shade he shuffles watering aged roots of our giant tree.

Then a final toast before we depart:

“Slainte y saludo,To the Father, His Son and their Holy Ghosts”.

Baseball players, papas and school girls along

With mamas and babies, curb painters and drunkards

Line the streets to celebrate sixty-nine positions of the cross

And Marys with Jesus, sipping cups of wine, return our salute.

“El Diablo, you say? By now you are his, so watch us depart.”

Mounted on steel steeds we are off to explore

Volcanoes and beaches, pool halls and cantinas

Rocky roads, lava beds, old stables with light bulbs and mattresses

Scorpions and bull frogs under the tropical moonlight.

Three worn out Mounties trying to ride three worn out nags

Made it to pool halls, tranny bars, gay bars, pot farms and beach bars

Banged up, scraped up, dented and bent

Who could tell?  Who could see?  Which were the wrecks?

The wind blew, the waves crashed.  Managua fat cats

Lost their minds to rum, their boat to the volcanic seas.

The Red Planet spied upon Earhlings hiding their sins

In the light of a Blood Moon warmed by Maderas’ fire.

Snoring, farting, belching, talking awake and asleep

Memories, dreams, visions of ex-wives, lost loves

The insanities of regrets, remorse and countless broken hearts

Collided with violence, like molten lava into the surf.

Willie walked free, Eddie laughed steady, Serious held Quiet.

Howling monkeys, crowing cocks, barking dogs and dead fish

Filled our ears and our bellies. Wind in our hair,

sand in our eyes, bugs in our teeth, sun burned our skin.

Sun up.  Rosy, wispy dawn.  Smoking, gurgling, burping volcano.

Placid lake, gentle breeze on the pirate’s cove.

Fishermen up firstlight; rowing boats, dragging nets.

Breakfast from the waterOur pick from their net.

Still, instant coffee blues.

Walking Willie, Moto-Willie, Jabber Willie, Rummy Willie

Went for a swim in the waters next door to his place

With ten macheteed, ten rock throwing, ten cursing

and one rifled Indian after his hide and satchel of deeds.

The road to Walking Willie’s lakeside farm is rocky and gritty

The land is most beautiful, the lake is most calm

But the people are on fire with lust for his blood

The air riddled with bullets, we make our retreat

William Walker and His Immortals live to fight one more day.

Cerveza in the shade to celebrate our escape

Infatuated, intoxicated, fabricated, decimated, emaciated

Souls moving from beach to valleys to mountains to craters

Excursions into debauchery on motorcycles with Che.

Awaiting us at the dock, Che Guevara’s own ferry

Sailing, rocking, rolling and carrying us back to the

Land of not-so-normal.

Eddie steady with beers and the broads

Willie into the wheelhouse and dons the hat of his

steamboat namesake.

(A poem, by Steven Lindsey, inspired by my recent trip to Ometepe Island, in Lake Niacaragua…with William (Will/Willie) Hape and Gene (Eddie Munster) Price; April 10th-18th, 2014…leaving by ferry from Puerto de Granada and returning to Puerto de San Jorge).

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