(For April)
Highrollers from Tijuana to Las Vegas
of sin city sin city for a pontiac montana
before throwing the dice
flashbacks:
I: Cancer Dona Sara eats a Sunday afternoon
Duck: Dona Rosa falls in the morning to get ready for
work stroke and end up with her Social Security
Laguana: it renders the liver of Don Juan lower
the checkered flag ends the quarter mile that ruled his life
with the left front wheel of wonder Why would a million dollars
not talk about the future: dog next to masturbate in dirty pants
our goal has always been broken: in the back seat
a taxi at the last second of the game
with the bottle on the head of another
we play God never got to play God with us awhile
Highrollers this is no longer a game of cards
spend one after the other after one after another apostémoslo everything is not so
not be the first time I woke up beaten
in this dark alley with the taste of blood and the smell of our sin city dollar
Highrollers your bets up we
who charge dice.
We have a sea of \u200b\u200bshit
people standing perpendicular to the shore watching a wall
waiting for a shift change
a tsunami that drag San Diego
a sea to which the whole city empties
when the child arrives and we cry for days and nights we
cardboard houses that float to the sea a sea of \u200b\u200bshit
California Pacific
our shit and other
which once took me by the hair of my mother's ghost
cold most of the time
oddly enough the shit can be cold
a sea with waves of bodies match that lights the night sand dilutes
names of all who see the horizon
with stuffy noses. OMAR
PEPPER (From The wind baton. Thanks)
anapmares@gmail.com 
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