.PART.II.

I wish the world was flat like the old days

Then i could travel just by folding a map...

Limon.

you southern province on the caribbean coast.

i am finally able to see your face.

those eyes of colorful wooden houses, lashes blinking open windows and front porches.

the history of jamaica written on your forehead, with secrets and tradition folded into every crease.

i now know that the rest of these dry streams, the wrinkles that cover your leathery face, are filled with flying toucans and resting sloths.

and la nariz, well, it has been smelling tourists for years and making the necessary adjustments.

below this, your beard. it grows wild and untamed, green forests that refuse to be shaped or trimmed.

hidden among this lush growth, in an act of pure indulgence, your lips lie puckered - kissing the caribbean sea.

each morning, mouth open you breathe the sunrise over those blue waters.

and covering it all, the braids reaching from scalp to waist, woven with a myriad of languages: jamaican flavored english, french and spanish - forming a dialect all of your own.

Limon.

you are wrinkle-faced dogs, clutch fluid and llave #10. mosaics, feathers and pink floyd t-shirts. you are white haired old men, napping hammocks, silent clearings of fireflies and climbing in trees over the breaking tide.

Limon.

I am so glad to have met you.