The bus was taking
too long from
El Rosario, Sinaloa.
His mascara
lay
forlorn
in his seat;
a luchador
unmasked
is no one.
Not one.
“Stop the bus!” Falling
out the bus
door into the
tormenta. Not
Fray Torementa. Just
a luchador
unmasked.
He drowned
alone, unseen, and
yet hitting the
mat that night
in Mexico City.
¡Qué vergüenza!
¡Qué la canción!
EN MEMORIA DE ABISMO NEGRO, 1971-2009.
Hailing From Parts Unknown, mostly cause he’s too embarrassed to admit it’s the Inland Empire, Joe Hilliard comes in at a less than optimal 6’2″, 260. But he makes up for it in gritty jobber love. His knowledge of lucha libre names far outweighs his actual ability to do a frog splash. His knees ache too much.
Joe Hilliard. Writer. Luddite. Teller of Tales. Grew up as a teen in Los Angeles on a diet of Blue Demon, Doc Savage, Philip K. Dick, the Circle Jerks, Mildred Pierce, Judge Dredd, and 50s science fiction films, on the fringe of 80s Hollywood. Graduate of the University of Michigan, which only added Kawabata, Krazy Kat, and William S. Burroughs to the mix. Marks time as a paralegal in sunny California.
One Fall Review 