The DM13 Journal
We are fleshed flukes, experiencing the statistical anomaly of life, collectively during the same blip of time, as death beckons–forever plunging into its bottomless sinkhole of darkness.
When our lifeless bodies will splat on the other side, nobody knows–but we can laugh at insignificant things in the meantime as we linger about, pre-carcass.
Nestled in the churns of its highlands, El Cipitio and Sollistimus Vita dandled, inhumed in the bowels of Chalatenango.
Carnal flashes lambasted the barrio below, and the mothers censored their teenaged daughters prying eyes–their virginal minds with a desire to know.
Pubescently slender bodies–stems of youth, their innocence withering like gospel truth.
I petitioned her for a depraved taste of El Salvador, and my supplications were heeded on a Rabbit Rabbit August afternoon.
A little package arrived in the mail, and I opened it.
There were two, tiny, carefully-crafted tropical fruit sculptures (double entendres that piqued one's lechery). And when you lifted the lids there were sweaty little people fornicating with insatiable thirst and hunger for eachothers' juices and flesh, respectively.
When asked for something a bit more risqué, the wrinkly little Salvadoran shopkeeper replied, "¿Algo que pica?" She reached for the shelf behind the counter, set them down, and pointed with her mouth.
My accomplice bought them at once, wrapped them up in brown paper, and shipped them 3,000 miles away to their new Dragon Master.
I showed my Salvadoran abuela, and she approved.
Now, when I sit down at my desk to write or edit photographs, I like to lift the sexy fruit lids and admire my sweaty little fornicating people before summoning The Muse.
