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Smugglers / JD Clapp

I'll get this blog party started with a prose poem, reflecting the current border situation in San Diego, CA.


We move things south to north, cross the line separating 3rd from 1st, through the human desert death zone, scrub brush, rock, dirt and blood. We move our goods through the throngs of souls fleeing yesterday’s African diaspora, and camps born of the most recent Chinese migration. We drop off future fuck toys and unpaid maids. We strut like king roosters in the cock fights behind the old drive-in near the border. We glare with our burnt-out bulb eyes dimly lit, our upside-down Mona Lisa smiles protecting our gold cap fangs and bleeding gums. We keep them in line with waist band Glocks and pay La Migra with deep-pocket pesos and crumpled Benjamin’s. Yes, we are the cocaine cowboys, the meth slinger border bad banditos, moving it and human cargo from here to there. We were the death boat panga pilots, pitchpoling in big surf under the glow of mansion dwelling doctors who spend nights doing our coke and days supporting politicos who want to send back the lucky few who didn’t drown.


JD CLAPP writes in San Diego, CA. His work has appeared in The Milk House, Rural Fiction Magazine, Wrong Turn Literary, Revolution John, The Whisky Blot, among several others. He has forthcoming work in A Common Well Journal, Fleas on the Dog, and Literally Stories. His story, One Last Drop, was a finalist in the 2023 Hemingway Shorts Literary Journal, Short Story Competition.

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