Ray Bradbury and the Country Boy

Souls must grow warm before they grow great
Before they may speak
They need a fire to huddle against
Flamelight to flicker inside their eyes
Looking up into yours
With promise of something wild
Something imbued with duende
Words you don’t recognize

While father speaks the ghost
These things between your warming palms
are my fingers clinging to knuckles.
Throw your head back,
Imbibe duende.

Sweet Succulent Sexual Dracula


This man just had two.


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