Mina La Verdad de Un Artista
Truth of an Artist, strange name for a mine.
It´s hard to reach. Nobody wants you there.
Poems from a Series on the Sierra Minera and Its Mining History
Haha Lol.
They sent me to Moura, I think, because I’d been shoving MDMA in my school shoes and bombing it in the disabled toilets at lunch. Could have been anything, though. Just a guess. There’s a limit to the number of times you can get back to third period maths, all pupils, wired on the slow turn of a clock’s hour hand. ‘Can you come with me, Kieran?’ someone asked. Could not for the life of me tell you who it was, though. When it came time for a response – which I think whoever’d asked had been waiting on for a few minutes, or maybe just seconds – as to why this was all happening, I shrugged. ‘Laryngitis?’ I wondered out loud, because I was fucked if I knew what the symptoms were. Anyway, where was I again? Moura.
No Exit
Mr. Barnevald left Mr. Evans for a Miss Kruger, a delicious rose of a woman, as Mr. Barnevald described her.
Advice to Ripen Her Words; Options; The Road (One Of Many Personal Freeways)
Advice to Ripen Her Words
Reading no absolutist treatise has convinced her.
Days of relative good occur: no carpenter ants
in the sill; no too soft fruit on grocery shelves;
no June losing streak to end the pennant hope;
no overt faults crumbling at continental edges.
Actualization; Neologism; Container; Sehnsucht; Afflatus
Actualization
The need for desacralizing unfolds. Our gods
never cease to fail us, some even after death.
The Walrus
Yolanda walked unsteadily down Madison Avenue, watching her red, kid-leather boots with golden buckles plow through thick snow. Ken called them her fancy-pants boots. Her feet were soaked through and so cold she could hardly feel them. There was something she was trying to remember. What was it? A smell of some kind. She might have walked this way earlier. The snow had been whiter the first time, she was pretty sure, though not totally sure. Now it was mostly smashed down and dirty and wet. A cab shot in front of her—toast! That was it: the smell of burnt toast. Getting a fix on that forgotten smell was one tiny thing she could hold in place on this out-of-place Christmas Eve Day.