one day the broken eye was looking for pants to wear in the desert, the red dog, the great herd of windy machines singing an oil song sounded like smoke to a fish, “good morning,” said the broken eye to the red desert, “Good morning to you,” said the red desert with lime and blue spots, shifting and receding in the glare, which direction did the pants go in 1949? “that way,” said the ocotillo—

—for Eetalah


one day, the broken eye looked everywhere in the red desert for a pair of pants to wear on the radio getting all fussy and out of breath, “you don’t need pants to go on the radio,” said the red dog which was running around and round the ocotillo bush with its tips of flame, with its tips of joy and fish, with its tips of lizard eyes and bright eyes—“thanks for the tip, I have the habit of pants, good morning,” said the broken eye—

—for Citlali


one day, the broken eye was looking through the torn pair of pants and saw the red desert on the radio waves, sounding like the song of machines in the dirt fish, “I want to wear smoke this morning,” said the broken eye to the ocotillo, “I rode my toothbrush all the way here now I am out of oil,” as long as there was chorizo grease all over my face and all over the red desert, okay—

—for Marina