December 2013


Touch the hands of the dead. I promise, you will never be afraid of their ghost if you do. I did, and the ghost followed me through blow job alley and broken syringe boulevard. It lifted my eyelids in the middle of the night to show me its wounds. It covered my 300 pound body in a bat skin pall. It sang me songs that if spoken became poems read in cemeteries where black crows go to die singing “my home’s in hell.” I yelled, BAKA! BAKA! EAT THIS NIGHTMARE!

—Edward Vidaurre

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