Sample sale bag lady

It’s a brother’s Johnson sort of thing
Strawberry letter 23 turned sour
Lemon man-boy break fast
Exit ethiopia
Next nigeria
Or maybe mali
Makes room for guinea
Pigs of all sorts
Of sordid and sumptuous
Suggestion…

Or could it be
Cabo verde?
Never greener pastures on the other side
Just the same tale of landscapes and territories
Battles to be fought
Forgiven
Forgotten with time

Like memories, men and history (not herstory)
No refunds accepted

Because as Heraclitus said
One can never enter the same river twice.

hunger

Jezebel’s sister.
The middle child.
The one not hard enough to take the money.
Instead, she worked harder, selling honey
On the street.
To cook a stew for two
And create her own
Ambrosia
Sold her soul to hungry men, to feed her own
Appetite
For destruction.

Rain in Rio

time paused by pouring rain
reminds me of a tropical adolescence
my body needing natural cleansing
despojado en lagrimas

now in a city of plush hills and favela mountains
when the rain stops
its music continues

the rhythm of wet pellots hitting terracotta shutters
the drizzling water of vertical gutters
the swish of mototaxis in puddles
the hum of wind rocking trees

a silence only nature can whisper
in an urban amazon jungle

gut gastronomer

surround sound samba
i give glances at
cariocas cooking creole italian
crossing the atlantic in different forms
fomenting kitchen kultur that
forgets race

if only fusion were so easy on the
streets
as it were on the tongue
tastebuds allow for difference
without pitting palates
a bitter sweet and sour
sabor

dare a culinary quest beyond text
force a gut gastronomer to ask:

what does love taste like?

The Misandrist

The Socratic method: the greatest ally against men.
Question after question, pulling them in and throwing them out.
Replaceable, disposible, dead bodies
In an undefined war
Her stongest weapon has no emotion
It just opens, closes, dries up and
plays repeat...

The Mi/SAND/rist was born from the name of the father.

Lost

Scene i:

Papi cleaned toilets.
Mami cleaned houses.
Sister one cleans up after drunk men.
Sister two is already dead.
Brother is paranoid.

Scene ii:

We enter their space quietly, yet stained
Grateful, yet quilty
Knowledgeable, yet doubtful
Prepared or was it all potential?
The lucky ones.
The first to move beyond the streets,
not have babies at 15,
drop out of school and work
at Burger King.
We enter mathematically less than.
The equation is already solved.

Scene iii:

We leave but not as doctors or lawyers or professors.
We leave lost, crazy, and still colored.

My Karl Marx: This is what I look like now

My Karl Marx book sits right next to me: upside down
on a pile of books about the Middle East, Community-Based Theatre, and Medieval culture. To my left sits a cheap silver ashtray filled with remnants of a dirty addiction that makes for the following: yellow teeth, dry skin, and $6.85 a pack. I smoke and twirl to satisfy some need into emptiness. Feist plays in the background, singing some song about her man and the moon. Books close me in, a wooden antique chair kills my back, my glasses are blurry (not my vision)and the damn train passes every 6 minutes. I wonder who missed the train this time. Where are they all going now? This is the den of inequity. This is the place I seldome visit: to drink wine and champagne with friends, talk about love and life, think, write, smoke, watch the garden that isn't mine, listen to the ice cream truck, write love letters, end relationships, play frisky, act impulsively, begin new lovers, cry, laugh, stare into nothing, do mindful exerercies, and finally remember that Marx has dangerous eyes; his isn't a philosophy but a practice.

Martha Graham might not be proud

Cucala, cucala
que cucala, que cucala
plays live in front
of "improvisational"
chicks,
jamming to a beat called
"pay attention to me".
Hair down,
hands running through stringy blonde locks--
when the right man
turns a peak.

Ismael Rivera once sang this song to me.
I moved to it at this LES spot,
and thought of being teased by him,
by him, or
by him.

That conga hit me hard--not like the eyes diverted after opening legs,
but swift, stellar, almost beastly like punches in my hips.
I did my feet magic with my LatinAs,
laughing at the gringa looking
stale, pale, and possessed.
I was afraid to be obvious
but my excess is my affect.

What did she carry inside of her?
Did she know the sounds (like the words) were teasing her?

Cucala, cucala
Que ella sabe...

pa' mi luna (la que sabe)

There is no "oye" to begin this letter of parted sorries
and tear stained cheeks--
if they came in color
mine would mark me up more than race
and the bliss we theorize as latinidad
and the policy scripts we play from and
jump off of just to get paid
maybe laid
by the men
that get little pieces of what we "spick"
our bodies: a foreign film more often than not

I failed us lunita.
I dared and dreamt too far
Promised, like Austin, that what we spoke would "do"

Ahhh, in all these sorries there has to be a Simone
writing love to her Beaver
A Frida
looking for Diego
in all his demise and her crippledness
A Dali and his Dora or was that Picasso?
How quickly I forget the man's painted obsession
Least I forget Miles and his Betty Davis
Not the white one...of course

There isn't a ritual large enough,
bold enough
to gather these sorries

You see lunita,
some of us are meant to fail in love
for always
and in moment after moment
this is how we learn the lyrics to the foreign films we spill
Did you think this script was given in womb?

A cartographer of thoughts
Moments mapped in morphemes
But without rhyme
Because not every city was built
on a grid system
some
with landlocked landscapes
curvelinear cobblestone roads
some with mathematical acumen aboard
others led by water
or
like Chicago, destroyed by fire
a cartographer of thoughts
understands Benjamin, Lefebvre and the
walks
of urban gaits and iron gates
and all the while awaits
a space
where aesthetics and politics finds meaning
in home
TBC…

For sale: An exotic brand of egoism, the making of “Me”

Romance, so narcissistic, eggs hatched and consumed by ego
raw friendship, the balance of egos, the platonic
Spiritual, father-boy philosophy, it is no wonder
the feminine energy, on this level, threatens you so much.
Lest we forget that I can read Socrates, and the stoics, too.

We credit Hegel for the dialectic when it is in nature, in Heraclites, the ying and yang.
We forgo dialogue for monologues because they can be cookie cut and boxed
We toast packaged pop tarts, cash paid with no need for retorts
We purchase spirituality, bounded in books or words, non-ecumenical, ecclesiastic or esoteric
We switch to mass individualism, canned illuminations,
Our egos bored by personal search in the
eccletic

nothing wrong in wanting the beyond but not the banal
Sorbet and sensuality in lieu of
sohbet and truth – entre comillas.
Why deprive? Why should I?
go to church
go to the market
go to work
go on a diet
go on a vacation
go away

mystical conversation on mystical subjects –sohbet – reserved for men.
it does not create other humans
the real duty resides in meta (pro) creation, not just elevation
in us, women. Womb envy is deeper than uteri.

from my ego to your ego.

You must remember that a disciple wants a master – and I am neither.
And that gnosis is temporary – always, transformation reaches a homeostasis.
Like desire.
I prefer a partner, not a master, puppet or trumpet.
rather soft wispers sweet glances open ear
to hierarchies of thoughts, and cryptic or hermetic smugness.
Yes, sir, real genius wears skirts and pumps
Instead of pomp.

Rolling Cigarettes

Tobacco saved in green paper
rolled tightly over a good-bye breakfast
strong coffee smells spilling into nervous chatter
and food--a lost attempt,
each bite symbolized a sooner end...for one.

I tried to take it all in: the city moving quickly as we played a lover's catch-up, the hands that lent me my fetish, the green eyes that never failed to tell me when you were some place else, that body moving in and out of conversation (crossed arms, crossed legs), and the waiter gone waitress escaping us for far too long.

I stood above you as we smoked. Sitting next to you: an intimacy I could not give you. You drank your black coffee and inhaled deeply. I looked at all the passerbys and remembered I never gave you up. You remembered the people from our past. Our memories were no longer the same.

Sintra

Prince's Erotic City
en los cascos de mi ipod
Sintra, oh mountainous town
nestled in between Estoril and Lisboa - the violent atlantic
i follow your trail
through cobblestones
and lovers embraced
it is the romance of old
timeless
and with an image of you
the trip that never came
even though you did
i am here in your spirit
and i hear your thoughts...

Indeed

Indeed: a word that means more than just sure; it means to be in deed of something/someone.
Indeed: too simple to just verse out; cannot function in poetry for the word replicates its very denial
Indeed: said with the slime caught in an eye not worth watching over and over again
Indeed: an inhale of things past consumed--a lover of all that is the opposite of the indeed
Indeed: easy enough to use to get in and easy enough to use to get out

Indeed: the initiator of the word fails to perform anything in-deed the moment the utterance is uttered...the problem of the one inhaling the utterance is the effect it has in the denial of the actual word itself--the word is sneaky; its intent one of malice; its composure too damn tempered even as the word presenst itself as empty...

the word indeed is far from empty...it is full of the trots.

Fucking the beast

Fucking the beast that laughs last
leaves a knee stumbled in cracks
blood that cries not of that wound
but of the little one she carries


he plays you
follows me to the bathroom
no love
no loss
but a moment of shit
where the past means as much as the broken knee with no aid

my response: I am wasted, Stop harming the little good left in me.
My heels mean nothing to you and your
manhood nothing to me

move
move on

I have thought of him while owning you.
How dare you remember a night I renounce?
You serve as the escape to his silence.

And yes you are to blame for looking twice.

You are nothing.

He is nothing,

I am tired of being a flute.

Play no more.

Ugly Thursday

An ugly Thursday again

rewound to that moment

caught so many times

like the fine nestled ball in the catalyst's hand

where would the play be without Mr. First Base?

and how different, really, are the moments we save and secret so tenderly from one another?

We've all squeezed that ball before, no? Perhaps we all haven't made the play.

Sixteen Purple Platters...

and an unwanted baby in an underbelly.







-------------...---------------------

Pause, you homo-hag
take a drag off that fag
slip on that laugh
twirl that split-ended tress
sunglass the dots that read:
"papi, I ain't ready for real hands."

-------------...---------------------




Fifteen green apples...





and a pill in the upper belly.

Curious George

Did you with a bang--
final "acting out"
final shameful escape
last kiss to seal the end...
wrong man however

Closed my eyes
played my hair like a fine fiddle
moaned like a bitch...
to the beat of the wrong skin however

Another Maria you claim,
slipping in and out of sheets dirtier than Bush
"I want to live in America."

mami

Loudly I remember "la condenada muchacha" spilling screams in stores for new crayons you never denied.

I learned how to jump rope, tie my shoes, read, color in the lines, and reject naps at four.

Today I am four again, wearing the curls you tempered and the laugh you never gated.

Nothing

I make friends with space in hope that time will be gentle, grabbing my hand instead of face. So often and so abrubtly, time makes a spectacle of me--abrasive reminders that hiding does not stop its ticking. I've left the watches to boxes and travel to the sight of things only to fail in the grandest attempt ever: running from those walking gracefully to a time that makes sense to more than one.

Follow the Blue Arrows

A little color
A Z at the end of a name
Stops in Mexico and Florida
And a passport full of wrong places traveled
Can make grown men put on gloves
and search through dirty panties.

off the beaten boundaries

the red couch sat outside
curbed: for lucky takers
the street, a tv; an outdoor living room
as if to turn intimacy inside out
i expose you
to
taunts from passersby
Benjamin's porosity meets Baudelaire's flaneur
without the introspection
the goingons without the going

and you sit, nearly short
of words, already short
of meaning, running short
on time
i expose you

Micro/-expressions

acute senses can make lollipops lose their wrappers,
exposing the most expert deception
lies squeezed into the tightest corset:
explode and leave a trail of over/-compensation
when you have said too much
it is not time to be silent
for silence will bleed you into the deepest well
the micro, micro, micro expression I have listened to before
it's the lie revealed in expression,
the tormented guilt you send by way of distorted face and
whispered anxiety

your skin did not become orange or yellow or shades of both
your left eyebrow did not lift in anticipation of a successful tale
your hands did not shake
your voice did not crack in moments of over/-exposure

you buzzed like a bee finding nectar to calm your betrayal
such a pathetically beautiful image
such a sad bastard
such a bloody deceased whore...

in my head.

no big deal

your nonchalance
made me bleed a whole month

when was the last time your penis
exposed such vulnerability?
with each drop of masculinity
my gender's defined by your absence
of pain

but it is no big deal, eh?

on the act of waiting for the right time

if only i'd wait for more inspiration
than the words would flow
better, in their becoming before being, crisper
in anticipation of perfection
i'd cross all i's and dot all t's

if only i'd wait for the sun to shine brighter
and cast a beam of light
melting letters into morphemes
magnifying words into meanings
thoughts into symbolic forms

to be judged in light of
all lights

if only i'd wait for the critical moment
these words would not have crashed on my apple, once
or wound up wet in a rained on text, once again
because syncopation can repeat at ifinitum,
the way a drum beats
or pendulum swings
but the right time never comes

For Foucault

S.t.u.m.b.l.i.n.g

1:00 in the morning,
too ragged to sleep,
too wasted to curse,
too full of you to lie,

you’re not finding me.

four months past and
I mourn it now.
Delayed reactions sting a little longer—an
almost biting touch

stumbling to get over it
can’t even name you yet
it’s not pretend…I know.

the hardest story to tell is the one you cannot claim

still stumbling as you walk
still stumbling in my words
still stumbling

it’s not pretend…I know.

Dimensao Estetica

Is more than a Marcuse poster found on Brazilian college walls
A homage to eros and civilization
Left hand reaching out beyond his stare
An arabesque in ballet
Alone and with gaze,
The punctum:
The idea before the clicking finger.
Trigger finger, trigger happy, trigger apathy
The demise in the voyeur's brow,
Furrowing into the depths of a walk

Crossing the street to close the gap
Empty walls showing cracks
Past heads shrinking their covers
Moving down the duvet
To reveal crumpled pieces of skin
To fill wounds with wetness




We let them Over Flow--destroying
And
Confronting musical mistakes later

Beyond the valley of the dolls

lies a dedication to those who only take

life has been that way lately
mantras, mistakes y maleducados
only maladapt my muses into mined melodramas
all the more

Ludlow St. and its theater of the absurb
caressing my belly
in a laughbable lower-east side kind of way
sometimes pit-in-stomach nervousness
or raucous belts

you need humor to
remember scripted and sculptured lines
enacting different characters
dressed in affect and accents
to narrate sweet nothings
behind the bar

scenes are for scenesters
text and empty sex to lull
this act to a close
et fin.

French Thursdays

repeating youth games
smile at the aging
where orange lipstick
and
blush
no longer veil

lessons already learned and learned and learned
travel too fast
in cabs
where pleasuring women
and pleasured men
speak in tongues

a trip through everything euro,
everything done
this time the wine turned one over
left the others out of tune
some letter (perhaps b) gone flat
some limbs too wasted
some face not lifted enough

Forte

Falling,
Falling,
Falling

Found

Speckeled hair caught under the stationary shopping cart
Blue plastic glasses over her deaf blue eyes
Dressed in her house rope and slippers
Keys in hand
Scabs across her arms and legs
Who loved Forte other than the Verizon man who found her?
Other than her lost son?

"Forte, can you hear me?"
"Forte, can you hear me?"

No beat to her stare
No rhyme to her breathing

"Forte, can you hear me? "
"Forte, can you hear me?"

Everyone in sight stands alert to the stillness of her body,
Staging responses for when the "savers" arrive
To announce what we already know:
Forte, left with a sudden blow

Pinching her nose
Pounding her chest
Machines in an apartment hallway;
Rehearsing the way to bring her back
(Is this the way she wanted to close?)

All that remains is the wet denture of an old woman
And a cold body being pulled away publicly

"Forte, can you hear me?"

Flight

Jammed telephone booth:
Pushing in quarters that want to go home
A line of white faces behind me
Known space
Walked its parameters--
Always
Yet a crash can make a gal ask:
"where am I? how do I return?"

This is my memory of me waiting to end.

you can read?

But,

don't think much more of the words slipping off my tongue,
commanding you to please...
it was a momentary/addiction
always a body 2 body persuasion
anti-emotion
anti-commotion
anti-explosion
steady boy, every-body needs their fix


But,


you've been reading me like an assigned novel--by memorizing
characters all in play
plot to a time
themes jumping out from the crevices of your mind
denouement who?
who?
steady boy, i play like french ain't my game
while reading you reading me reading my name
as you put your piano hands to mr. big...
ahhhhh,
no-one's shaming you
ahhhhh


But,


you can read?
sexual healing?
nah.
sexual/emotional/spiritual connect-some-dots?
nah.
sexual pleasure?
your extra sense did you wrong


But,

i'll entertain your paranoia
not because i'm better...i mean bitter


But,

because i am tired of being sung

ode to Lisa Lisa

Judy Torres loving Frankie.
sends questions punctuated by pussyfoots
oh, so not hot.
never lost in emotion
or short of words when in your face
stevie b or babyface
tka
taste my cookiecakes

Ghost stories

get out the DSM. put your jammies on.
i'm gonna tell you a bedtime story-
not a lullaby, but with allegory.
did you say you saw a ghost?
or do you just so badly need to see me scared
a glowing vulnerability
dabbed behind the ears like a perfume
yes, it feels that contrived.
and this time you've lost your charm.
there are those for whom the spectre of death
is as cheap as their cologne
and matching gold chain.
I don't care enough to cast
spells or throw
stones
so, suave: ghosts jolt you that much?

XXX: tribute to peaches

Last night I thought I'd try something new
went to a danceclub meets bar cum live nude drawing
sponsored by a pornsite, I believe...
gathered were a crowd of artsies, sketching manerist scenes
charcoal pencils in one hand
glass of tinto vino on the other
and I produced a cheap lil poem:

a room full of hungry eyes
the sirens seem more vapid
in real time/space
been replaced by hipster chicks
apparently american apparel
meets fish net sex
Bettie Page times three - removed
charming
Medusa's circle ciphers a bad
scene from a Vice Magazine

Chico Plastico: Revisited

“Se ven las caras, vaya, pero nunca el corazon…Panama presente"
A roll call for aesthetic sake
The song winds through the countries of our homes
El chico plastico conducts a symphony of faces – always with exquisite restraint
For a freak of control, he has bright eyes and a smile worth following
And great stories, the kind with jazz and energy,
But with no rhythm to take shape
Lest they’re lavishly funded.
Perhaps we could just sit here, and talk. A marxist entertainment.
And, just maybe, you’d be more content.
"y miran sin ver." Blades and Colon said it best.

Concrete Boys

Immediately vacant when clarity arrives.

Plucking compulsively at the emotive.

Concrete Boys Know the Difference between Difference as if Difference Where Never Linked to Sameness...

Cryp/tic/tic...ticking like BIG ben

(PROGRESSIVELY LESS CLEAR)

Our Types of People

We narrate everything. We play repeat on every innuendo. Tons of breaks (a little ADHD) just to make it through the day. We labor hard. Ramon Jamon el raton understands: he cleans compulsively and hoards. We each have our own hand in glove. We smoke until we choke, laughing like school girls 'bout poetry once too brilliant to share. We have a hard time tooting our own horns. Did you notice?

Wrongo Dongo

Wrongo Dongo,
Was the name of the lovely tempranillo
Drank with reminiscent words on dong gone wrong.
A stray led into the dog house
Searching for his blankie
To cloak his drunken thoughts with soil and earth: a vineyard.
Don’t shit where you eat. Vienna. Rio. Rome. Zanzibar.
Don-go down to get up. Fall if you must...
and land on a dongo.

Aloof in memory, not in moment

Aloof: [aristocratic] distance maybe even Kantian; reserved; remote; physically and emotionally unavailable; view from afar; apart; separado.

Who's going to chisle away the wall? When one is aloof is the wall even worth chisling? Adorno claims: "He who stands aloof runs the risk of believing himself better than others and misusing his critique of society as an ideology for his private interests." Oye, herein lies the rub: when ideology is privitized, the self is priviledged; the aloof man can only converse with himself. There is really no critique of society.

Technorati Profile

Brighter Days

Smoking jane when sun hits hard. Rolled like a taught factory woman, child in belly, hidden under an oversized shirt...la factoria can't have babies growing alongside the market. Work woman.

Pedestrian

Crosswalk. No lights. Headache. Not done skimming the streets though. A lot of social notes still to take. A bastard ethnographer, viewing the ghosts of the past in the faces of now. Lost intellectual looking for community, but not the typical idea of community where simple marks, mark roughly, rather where the marks are soft and transitory. The pedestrian crosses. She is now gendered. Is she? Crosswalk. Lights on now. Flash. Flash. The pedestrian makes a face--one of anger and not confusion. Flash. Flash. "You flash. You pay." Pause. No lights. No money. Soft observations are no longer free.

Coffee Ground Divination

Babalawos use caracoles or palm nuts, depending on which route on the diaspora, to plow prophetic insight. I use coffee grounds. A reinvention of ritual, with just enough caffeine to keep sober in this concrete jungle meets modern zen garden. I say to Gaelle: “Otro cafecito, mi cielo?” And we refuel for the future past tense, old Chicago house, leaving a trail of soft espresso grounds to mark the sugar.

Weirdness in a Coma

The physical effects of words. "I am off to bed." What does this mean when only minutes ago we spoke of stitches and buttons? Supposedly, it means you are off to bed and well, one of us is still up thinking of deconstructing five words. It doesn't really end here though. One of us, did not know how to spell weirdness and so spelling it out without looking at the word, brought the correct spelling into being. Interesting. One of us, wonders how premeditated those five words were...were they preempted by the desire to escape or did sleep come too soon? I before e. E before i. EI together. Weirdness. Why not write: I am getting tired now? I will speak to you tomorrow. Why use the word "maybe"? It presupposes so much, no? Coolio, but one of us is not a maybe kind of gal. It leaves too much for the imagination. Actually, it leaves nothing to the imagination when you think of this signifier's actual intent. It means that the referent is deep, deeper than you think one of us can handle. It means: the ball is in my court; it means I got some hoops to make...
only hoops you gonna make are the hoops in my earrings.

Ma'

Oye Luna (a letter of devoted thinking),

Something's hiding. It isn't the last bit of hope, running out of Pandora's box. It isn't the betrayal played by Judas. It isn't the mouse, hurrying to a hole. The trap is chasing her. It isn't the overly psychotic, living in the borderline patient. It isn't constipation of the ass. It isn't even the real rhetoric spewed by the politicians. It is the little boy of 29 years late. He is still in love with ma'. You see, ma' had a problem: she lived for love through her son. No little boy can fill that void. Luna, what of the little boy of 29 years...late, and the ma' who loves life more than living to love the little boy? I daresay that even when ma' brings nipple to lip, the little boy will be too jilted to suck. Who is this ma' now? We shouldn't have to replace her, name her over and over again, or do without intimacy.

Affective Dishonesty

Why do we use honesty as an alibi for our performances of dishonesty? The answers are innumerable. 1.) Fear of rejection; 2.) Little or no ontological understanding of self; 3.) Confusion (albeit believing in "I don't knows" is far too easy a retreat.) Perhaps getting at the why is inessential right now. Maybe the core of the issue is rather simple: the performance clown crops up when too many blows to the self's imagined sense of self is exposed in a rather ambigious and even arbitrary way. Lately, it appears that to live in an unexposed way means to secure a sense of stability--a flat landing that predicts only the predictable. Dishonest or not, the mere intrusion of any emotional spectrum that encompasses too much too fast or too little or obviously plays into excess means that a dishonest paranoia of sorts will play out. For we cannot feel so much at such time or so little in such place; it isn't real--although so real--to feel beyond logic.

Chico Plastico

what does it mean to be plastico? could it be, like Blades and Colon tell us, that which melts in the sun? So what if that sun, err, were emotions? U know, what flows from the crevices of a woman's breast...ah yes, take a deep breath: te presento: emociones.
oye, chico plastico, con su pistola en tu mano, how do you blanket feelings so well?

Halfway There: This Charming Man

A charming man is always halfway there. We were halfway to the intellectual ivory tower when we decided mozzarella and bread were more important that writing a piece-- a disciplined piece-- made for publication. Despite looming deadlines, we opted for collab on the fly. Mauricio told us that he would make us chorizo at the tapas bar, but we opted for John. He was a little more provincial. With blue eyes bright as a toddler's, he spoke of days with patina. Mr. Baradino, as we later learned, had a wife, was an officer, a radio host for the Italian community, and had an archive. And hence, it was through his archeology that we discovered his soul: lively and sung. Speaking French like a working Italian in Paris, he played the drums on the counter and wooed us into a thirteen dollar tip. Not bad, for a capricious cafe on a lonely Connecticut road. He said our friend, la mexicana with almond-shaped eyes looked like the bakery girl who made his pastries, but never spoke; English was not native to her, but he liked her. Their eyes must have met in another world, where the subtitle is dialogic, even without words. We live through our stories on which ever side of analysis we lie. We are beings because we have history; without it, there is no present future or subjuntivo. A temporal twist of fate leads us only to words. Mr. Baradino's ephemerality was the reproduction we produced in our journey; not that it wasn't there before. But we found him. But we were only halfway there. This charming man and he doesn't got a stitch to wear. His stitch was what we learned to sow and we were only halfway there. He put his hand on the arch of my back like a salsero. In snow-capped Norwalk he told me I didn't need a viejo. Luna called me a coqueta. I was a little hungry for cheese and ham. Luna said: "I have proscuitto at home."