Communication
It was always the same he’d stand on the corner in front of the kiosk playing his sax one note at a time like walking a dog the same deliberate gait step by measured step. “Are there enchiladas in heaven?” I’d ask him drop a dollar in his old felt hat that must have belonged to his father [they don’t make them like that anymore]. “Are there enchiladas in heaven?” I’d ask again wait for his answer that always came “bo ba be bot” a line of black...
Read MoreDali’s Last Dream
By the signposts of the mind he reclines in the cradles of melted watches, a strand of moist pink gum winding between the liquid mirrors of convoluted canyons sweetness faded to wash line grey. A cold wolf howls at the blackened moon, below, the naked bones of whitewashed beeches stretch their brittle limbs, claws bared to rake the sky, bleeding harmonic dissonance through the ruptured hearts of buffo toads floating, face down, in limpid pools of marginal realities. Passion...
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