puno + lago titicaca, peru

leaves. blades. cupboards, sparrow
i sell it all for nothing. i do not believe
in illusion. you smoke terrible.



not a beautiful city,
but damn this pollo is killer

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smoke. marx. life. the great
joker. nothing has a name.
i don’t look at shapes. the paper
love. wars. tangled hair. pitchers.
claws. submerged spiders. lives
in alcohol. children are the days and
here it stopped.

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the realization of día cincuenta maybe
subconsciously hits us as we fall asleep
to animal planet re-runs and a slender view of the
world’s highest navigable lake.
what is impressive is relative:

has it only been this long?

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it is coming. my hand. my red
vision. larger. more his.
martyrdom of glass. the great
nonsense. columns and valleys.
fingers of the wind. the bleeding
children. the mica micron.

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when the churches are robbed of their gold
and everything is closed on a sunday,

bojack horseman isn’t a bad plan b.

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i don’t know what my mocking
dream thinks. the ink, the stain.
the shape. the color. i’m a
bird. i’m everything. without any more
confusion. all the bells.
the rules. the lands. the
big grove. the greatest
tenderness. the immense tide.

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on the lake
i notice conversation shifts to you
and a familiar burn in my heart surfaces
like the floating islands of the uros people –

false, true, there for so long
that it’s better not to think about.

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garbage. water jar, cardboard
cards. dice digits duets
vain hope of con-
structing the cloths. the kings.
so silly. my nails. the
thread and the hair. the bantering nerve

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last night we found sadness in the careful,
careless panflute whistles
and inflammable ponchos.

today the music is better (or just farther away)
and the steak was high-priced gristle.
i leave here dismal,
because i can be.

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i’m going with myself. one ab-
sent minute. i have stolen you and
i leave weeping. i’m just kidding.

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credit: the diary of frida kahlo by frida kahlo

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