God lives in a dog, a big dog the kind that demands press, red carpets and wet socks for rainy days. Hyped and hyper. Beards of dire life and open wounds for minions. Hopeless art sighs and power lunches filling up the barriga inside gallery terrorist attacks. Only there will be the "sundae ladies", caressing your ego and smelling your bad laundry like its an abstract painting from Paradise...Yod-Hei-Vav-Hei hovering over your creme fraiche culture and your spaghetti with meatballs and your pit fires to Molech. "Ill-es" never know why, after 5 minute conversation, the attention gets stirred and rekindled hermano, but then again, there is one who wins and one who loses all the time. Today you are a giant and jolly and green, but yes, you too will find your dust storm over Oklahoma Dead Indian Telephone Territory as Babel's Bell Rings for the Lost Tribes locked inside her red light towers.
