What troubles the mules is not the presence, the loiter, the stink, of death, rather the intrusion upon one’s dying.
The elephant he come for the bull the nods of heads, the “ Okay, my friend … “ the trunk Continue reading
The bull he walk off, like the elephant for his own words, with his own death. The quick understanding the Continue reading
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.