There are no seasons on the equator

Make it shinier, otherwise no one will buy it. Oh look another refugee from one of those damned first world nations. Make it glossy and golden-hued otherwise no one will offer their eyes. The refugee has a bad back because of all the precious stones and gems he carries in his Sagarmatha exploration back pack. The crevices and crooks are just projections from satellite projectors hidden in the ever dwelling, long hung, clouds. Those clouds that you look up to for guidance just as they disperse into vapor and you are left wondering what you were looking at to begin with. 


Never sweat bullets. 


Sweat blood. 


The refugee looks up to the brothels, the hostels, the cardboard houses, and envies them so dearly for their adequate living, their godliness.

Jesus would love you to point to the sky after your touchdown. 

God loves money in a capitalist society. He also hates key changes. 

Outside earlier, I looked up to a balcony and saw a red fabric flowing in the wind. I thought about bull fighting and color blind bulls put to death in a ring of cheering onlookers. I think about the horses that drag the body, leaving a path of blood in the sand and dirt, into the crematorium adjacent. I think about human bodies in red t-shirts hanging from the gallows. The wind whips the shirt around. I doubt a dead dangling body would contort as much, rather than just turn so imperceptibly slow that you wonder if he is dead or you. The red collared t-shirt was air drying on a hanger jabbed into a planter tied around the gutter. 

I opened the window to watch the clouds over the flat tops of buildings change from orange to yellow to red to purple to light blue and then polluted black (grey, really). Constellations tentatively show themselves like the first time undressing in front of a new girlfriend with the lights on. It is that feeling that eyes are examining you like a cadaver to medical students. Many stars refuse to undress themselves and I can’t see many as a whole. I tried on many different shirts that my uncle left me. Many will go to Goodwill. I’ll keep those that fit well. Expensive dress shirts and tuxedos, an amount of money left to me to pay for 9 months of rent even if I never live in the apartment. 

Blame is placed carefully like strategic Scrabble players in the heat of battle. 

The beer of the night is 8.0% alc. 

I made a collage representing Los Angeles to me. Recently began one that will become a parody of gambling culture. I found a paper magazine guide to the best casinos and slots to find in southern California, laughed out loud as I tucked it under my arm, and proceeded to cut it apart and affix the bloody remains to a small canvas. It is incomplete. I am going to white-out all of their pupils and change the words in the center. ‘Happiest Casino On Earth!’ I will replace casino with prison. I’m working on cutting out letters like a ransom note. 

Sweating on the couch, ready to welcome a cold night. Something brisk and refreshing. 

When conveying my desire to return north, I’ve encountered so many people afraid of the cold weather. It is normally the first impulse of these sun burnt people. “Diversity in weather is as bad as diversity in people,” their vitamin D poisoned minds believe. How could you deal with the rain? they ask. Rain is very cleansing, I reply. It is a natural shower and brings life to the earth while washing away the unsavory. Arizona people were similar. Weather is not enough for me. How could it be for anyone? 


I’d rather be melancholic as the weather changes than to feel so frustrated and futile underneath a constant, unforgiving sun. It is painful and repetitious to feel so hot for so much of the year. I prefer a chill in the air. Something to make me feel alive. Something crisp and burning in the lungs. Not sulphur fumes. Trees and their pure exhales. Here I suffocate. 


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