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I-8
nothing in Pine Valley
nothing on Boulevard
not a thing in Jacumba
or Ocitillo, plaster city,
nor dixieland,

hug tight to the border
9 miles south,
El Centro, California
old home of
Kumeyaay Tipai-Ipai,

90 degrees is
morning cool,

washed out windows
decaying signs,
homes are all trailers
no grass, no trees,

quick oasis of
american corporatism
hardy's del taco mcdonalds
at highway nexus
last stand before
plunge to Mexicali Mexico,

breakfast
hidden in tight
corners between
squat buildings,
abandoned, cracked
 and melted lots,
aguas frescas
melon, pineapple,
orange, fresh tortilla
scent, respite from
long dead miles,

this IS America, man!

this stretch of miles
this flat brown land
this world dropped out of time
this unforgiving glare

these people all different,

these people all the same.