I went from market to market for years, because Mexico is in its markets
– Pablo Neruda

inhale

 

fried pig skin

peppers

tortillas

dirt

car tires                                               cigarette smoke

dry wood

violin strings

fresh paint

concrete dust

exhale

 

when did my hands get so many wrinkles?

why is the mountain so violent toward the clouds?

how did that dog get on top of that building?

what does my cock look like to the man in the urinal next to me?

 

reflection in a window

 

i am

at least

until i

turn away