I’ll be just back from another epic road trip when this goes up. Back home in the burning desert, Hacienda Hogan, home sweet, strange home. Like an Afro-Mayan Mars colony, if we can tolerate the word in an age of decolonialization.
Wise entities, tinted with oxidation, know that in the Spanish-speaking world, “colonia” means neighborhood, and is used the way humble pochos would assume they would “barrio.”
It all flows, changes shape, distorts . . .
And ya gotta watch out. Constantly. Forever. Everywhere.
Read the messages in a new language, metamorphosed, reversed, refocused, and projected into a new reality.
Time for new identities. Like sci-fi cartoons.
It colors the environment anew.
Flowers reach out to deliver a message to an old icon. How long will it take to decode it? Will the news be good?
Meanwhile, things lurk in the shadowy corners of the cozy abode.
While flowers burn and shrivel up in the glorious radioactivity.
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