LandingPad Buenos Aires

I walked. I walked and walked and walked. I walked north on Montes Oca, cut up Avenida Martin Garcia, threw and threw into the curves of Parque Lezama.

trapped deep within uncertainty waiting for the sun to drop the moon to show its smile.

just another bus ride, an hour, two, it’s all the same.

you come out late at night stinkin´ of that booze

I got away from the park as quickly as possible, as if a physical distance from the stabbing could diminish my memory of the blood spilled. I walked briskly south, drinking absinthe in empty streets, and got on the first bus I saw.

After leaving behind Martín and that drug den, I walked north on Avenida Cnel. Diaz to Calle French and entered through the black wrought-iron gates of Parque General Las Heras.

i puked on a man´s shoes once

to salvage a pair of nice eyes to look at among all the ugliness people possess

i was riding the subway into town one morning, and at one of the stations, a young man got on. i immediately noticed that he was kind of strange,

Everything was haunting me, the specters in my bedroom in the mornings. In sweats of fever, apparitions tapped my shoulder, dirty and destitute children, and I was certain— absolutely certain— that they were me, staring back at them.