A stream of consciousness comes up out of the subway right there on Alvarado Street flows along MacArthur Park amidst the guys on the sidewalk selling baseball caps cigarettes bootleg salsa CDs & phony IDs on past the guy with no legs propped up against the lamppost
Inside the stopped train growing warm, I watch the broad wings of noses speckled with blackheads, the pink bald spots starting to sweat.
In the paper I read a story about a man who on the 26th of July fled what was for him a prisoned island. No soap, no toothpaste, no lights when he returned home by bike along the Malecón.
Friend, your thinking relies heavily on indigenous speech Indigenous to what you ask? to where you ask?
The door is designed for the repetition of words. The door is ajar. The door is a thought that will take you, as a formal convention, as a peculiarity of our time, in.