by the urine of milion fairies, deserted weed-grown privies with a musty smell of shit turning back to the soil, erect wooden phallus on the grave of dying peoples plaintive as leaves in the wind, across the great brown river where whole trees float with green snakes in the branches and sad-eyed lemurs watch the shore out over a vast plain (vulture wings husk in the dry air). The way is strewn with broken condoms and empty H caps and K.Y. tubes squeezed dry as bone meal in the sum­mer sun.“My furniture.” The commandante’s face burned like metal in the flash bulb of urgency. His eyes went out. A whiff of ozone drifted through the room. The “novia” muttered over her candles and altars in one comer.“It is all Trak . . . modem, excellent . . .” he is nod­ding idiotically and drooling. A yellow cat pulls at Carl’s pant leg and runs onto a concrete balcony. Clouds drift by.“I could get back my deposit. Start me a little busi­ness someplace.” He nods and smiles like a mechanical toy.“Joselito!!!” Boys look up from street ball games, bull rings and bicycle races as the name whistles by and slowly fades away.“Joselito! . . . Paco! . . . Pepe! . . . Enrique! . . .” The plaintive bov cries drift in on the warm night. The Trak sign stirs like a nocturnal beast, and bursts into blue flame