The map had them labeled as beach campgrounds, tied to little seaside towns. As the car tires slowly turned, grinding the bones of the dead before me, I found only communes of the bungled and botched.

The bright morning sun illuminated the remains of the previous nights activities ; scattered and broken bottles of booze, weathered beach chairs around the blackened stones of last nights fire, the sign for a drum circle to chant to the heavens above, or hell below.

The trailers have sullen eyes that watch the newcomer trespass on their land. I receive no waves of reception, no welcoming smile, only the empty curiosity of the damned wondering why I am here…..

Down by the dike that protects the commune from the rising tide is an old woman in her electric wheelchair navigating the bumpy and sandy trail, her granddaughter walking by her side.

Pure sexuality in the younger one’s walk, the grim reaper hovering like a dark ominous cloud over the elder.

I respect the peace the inhabitants seek here, go to the waters edge, and drown in the blue nothingness….

of the Bombay communes at Salton.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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