AFTERNOON SOL, SUNLIGHT on the fence. Clouds cracked to let in blue sky on spring yellow blossoms. A cool breeze enters the house as sleep takes Waylon, eyes moving under his lids. The green sheets wrap him and Hoa's breasts fall out of her gown, one brown nipple still wet with a recent sucking.
And finally after
all these hours
piss on the sheets
rejoice!
Aznar loses the vote in Spain. Zapatero promises to pull troops from Washington's Crusade. Reminds me of the joke by a U.S. general: "Going to war without France is like going on a hunt without your accordion." Crusades, accordions—I still need gas for the car. Blast down Texas roads. "They think we're gonna take it," shouts the redneck radio host, "but they've got it wrong. America's under siege by corporate elitists and their puppet governments. It's a globalist agenda designed to take over our lives. People, wake up! We know how they torture the innocent. We know how they want to steal our children and take our guns for our own good. But we've got to stand up to their crass tactics. We're not their slaves. Wake up, people! Wake up!"