PARSIFAL, EL PASO WELCOMES YOU

smell of ozone and creosote only whipcord jaws of poverty grasses the desert is full of hungry grey dogs here, space becomes time but— I want to kneel in the red dirt and gather armsful of mesquite —how many days could I carry? me with my hands full of branches and dust between my teeth here space becomes time and no one says you have to pray— just kneel in the dirt and gather thorny branches each day I pluck the thorns and each day something new trickles from my sweating palms what then? a perfect chain of fat...

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