You’ve never seen a lilac in Mississippi. Backstage you wear lotion laced with its chemical imitation. A ballet mistress says relevé always as command: lift onto the toe using only the heel. Your ankle’s bewilderment old as the horned owl gaze from your mother hunched in the...
Love is boring and passé, all that old baggage, the bloody bric-a-brac, the bad, the gothic, retrograde, obscurantist hum and drum of it needs to be swept away. So, night after night, we sit in the dark of the Roxy beside grandmothers with their shanks...
I don’t know why most mexicans in my hood wore nike cortez’s– why the breakers in my crew polished ‘em daily, as if a little spit could salvage our childhoods– why we all know cortez’s are best for c-walking, gang shit, sick moves thrust upon an opponent’s pride– why we thought by...