selected past writing at 42opus
If it is not machine mastery, it is a language. Even without air, the cold clattering of padded keys impresses the tiny white seals with seams.
Jenna's got a gangster rapper in her breast
halos and Hula Hoops in Jenna's breasts
Jenna got caffeinated coffee in her breast
Jenna's got Jimmy Hoffa stashed away in her breast
This is the gift of the book, in the end, a balance between philosophy and poetry, helter-skelter wit and calm sensual pauses.
Their legs are trees. He jaguars into the room. He stalks in pajamouflage. A tree root guts him with an upkick, flips him, stunned. He looks up like he's down in the lesson tub looking up at Father. A man's smile wavers in a whiskey glass.
We are revealed in its language and Ríos's "theater of experience," which is unavoidably common to us all. And how fortunate we are for having Ríos as not only our usher but our poet.