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May 12, 2012

Ten winters he was gone, then twenty, but
returned without children or woman or
riches. Only other men, ragged
as he was, monstrous tongues in their mouths, and
thirsty for beer and other pleasures.
Their machines could show the time of day
or map the heavens. For fun, they told me.
They told of mystik countries where flowers
grew from bombillos and babies ate roots
for bread. Life there, they said, was good.
Transparente. Transparent, eh? I
said. Carne! Carne! they called but stuffed
themselves with pie and me with their stories:
Guatémala, Mexico, tradeways,
ships in salty water, sugary
fruits. I had no use for any of it.

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