Barrio no se vende

Barrio no se vende My narrative awaits progression; the ouroboros unable to engulf its own decadent tongue. Quiet.

There will be no faces - I mean, fences. Tire’s rubber grips asphalt to halt miraged traffic. We lag beneath - I mean, liquidate. In heat, we watch the convection's sheet scatter across a waxy windshield. A tidal wave dances above double yellow lines. Outstretch our hands to finger-trace overgrown seatbelts. Like giant willow trees, wired around the neighbor’s greenhouse. Yet, we fear the clang to gush the glass above our heads. We feel the sun’s rays, but fear its sight. There will be no hedges - I mean, edges. The inside tender, jawed and boned - we will push quota - I mean, quiet.