Cibuco Cafe
The rooster stretched and crowed the sunup.
Manus Neco, relaxed and inspired, nudely seated on a timber rocking cradle, serenading the countryside of Corozal.
Noodled and twanged by the Flat-Footed Astronaut, melodious, and with imbued swing, his custom wooden ten-stringed keyhole-shaped Cuatro chanting.
The Cuatro
Wavy jet-black was the young boy's hair. Seated on a banquito, a small wooden bench, he picked and strummed his seashore-colored Cuatro.
The lute guitar seemed olden. The strings twisted at headstock.
Its tuners careworn and loose from continual bad tuning. The rosette was ripped, and the bridge clinging to black wire tape. Gooey adhesive on the soundboard, vibrating to his improvised tune.
THE JIBARO
The twinkling black yearning. An undiscovered dais anticipating the flat-footed print of true-hearted pride and honor.
Impressive the launch site. Satiny silver with glassy spirals of blinking filament surrounding the virgin skycraft. Prepped vertical and focused up.
Rocket boosters defrosting, and the bleached smoke swirling, the edgy excitement tingling. The suspenseful maiden takeoff orgasmic under the dark blue lid of the eventide.
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