¿Dónde Las Palmas?

Ancient instincts rise up. Once again

I must prowl the streets of Las Palmas GC.

The gold that once paved them

in Swiss bank accounts of corrupt city officials

 and crooked property developers.

The sidewalks pockmarked with discarded gum.

Black on Grey like the coat of the

abandoned Dalmation dog

that haunts our street.

Pathways spattered with paella

pancakes, discarded late night meals,

vomited from drunken stomachs.

Gruesome slimy patties of mucous,

tiny green maps of the island

grace the side-walk. All this

food for the cucarachas.

The underground population, whose

poisoned bodies litter the pavements.

I’ve made it to Las Canteras,

the beach, the promenade, the sea.

Across the blue green Atlantic,

the lilac mountains of Tenerife.

Pico Teide shines bright with new snow,

in the clear december air.

On my right, nature's cleansing.

On my left, her desecration.

My goal is reached, Carrefour.

My hunting ground.

Taking my ‘kill’ I look for a white steed.

A Toyota taxi takes me to my den.

The tribe will eat tonight.