GIL CUADROS© wHtby edb ig at ore & acy yey ok day ay le saw ei “A i epg eA Pr eK Tapas oda why sn” i, 19 Sil od ipa 2196 "ged ae 19; ape” Gh by oops dein eine (ox ‘yao, rom ‘sooamanst: 995 1 pice gs — ens — a ee — Uy is 2 NOS ize) — Putas — Cons — lls — ire, 2. Hla un — Cire — Ls yes — Uy aati. 4. Hac mrs — Glia — lees — Uy cise. 5; Gayman — ee — eile — Way cies Lega (Gt) — aera le rsssnurase fr si — aa {YU 25 id Loe Fed Kee pe ‘ey i ese, 26 as AS IS. seromenceuens ‘An od of 197, when ny ver oh di wos gre Wo yore cc ty dder’esiae Wing eal sare ot tes ected ny Me, él | cal ve done witout the gions end soppy sched teach Try Weert, She senda tod bys in as alga ond stung wih ny gps os we hele nd hi work ie we acy had a fa wrt oe sharig in cs. Aying aco tha wig part hy ei doubly esd with be vo singer an in my ber: Wars aris od Kein Main. "dae to okzoldge Thom Cre ond Davids hse merc love for ech has npied mye bye words. Farbemere or thar he Brody At ondation nd PEN/USA Ws forthe nal spprt ond ensure Fel ove ad ight fo aha Aer ond MIA, Miho Neots, ol Ate, eis oreo A and Leura ix,ach, his eyes fill o intent on saving my life. My grand mma stood behind this boy, her hands folded, saying Hal Marys, ears running down her face to the ground. Now David pressed his hand against my chest, His touch seemed to burn somewhere deep inside me, the warmth quickly extinguished by the coo! water. Strawberry skins filled the drain, I watched David's hands work, how they rubbed over the front of my body, how sturdy his wrists appeared, their strength. ‘And still T knew where weakness ran. I looked at my ‘own wrists, then Davids I noticed the patterns of veins stretched up his arms, they flexed a he washed me, it: ing the elastic band of my brief, spraying gently inside, He was just as thorough drying me off, with old cloth towel, stiffand inusy, smelling of car wax and window ‘leaner. A cool breeze, like a fan, passed over us. I wante ‘ed to rush David, a i was called for a mission, to say, “Now itis my turn, let me do you." WHITE PLACE am stinking drunk, driving down the wrong free- way back to my place. My eyes, which are getting bad, now blur even the large green exit signs, Teflective dots that spell City Terrace Drive. Hours in Rage, Revolver, Motherlode and Mickey’ have made ime wish for my childhood home. I dont know why I'm attracted to those West Hollywood bar types — blond hair, blue eyes — who twist my gold chain with a wed- ding ring on it. Their fingers are pale compared to my darker skin, They run them down my neck, under my lapel. They ask where I'm from, disappointed at my answer, a if hey are the natives