OPTIONAL POETRY

Al pastor with big hunks of piña, a raucous song coming from a band of young drunks, is it Roma, Condesa? These streets run around and around like a race track. Cerveza at altitude. Joven, cinco más por favor, con todo. What warmth and light at this hour of night. And absolutely nothing at right angles, walls coming out like full bellies, pavement in riot, this city sinking down into the prior. Poco que sé. […]