My mouth is a Moorish gate of rhinestones and piercings and spikes.
Our stones shear, like our religions, whose fall so near. There’s the catch, the shiver, the beg for a river. Continue reading
Gargoyle, hija, come, meet me at mass, where I with flatness of wood shall plan to beat your fungal ass, Continue reading
¡ Yeah, gargoyle ! ¡ Arribasé la cabeza ! Lift high your head ! Prepare to receive the bread, Baked Continue reading
Our stones, they shear, they sheer like our religions.
I, the bull, became more tired than I ever knew was possible to grow tired and so sleepy and they Continue reading
one calls out for that friend that saves the catch of breath that says “i know you, i see you, Continue reading
The high thin clouds of memory persist blown like stirred like coffee dregs, stirred like gnats by a summer wind Continue reading