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Today I'm smoke up the chimney over ashes of trustand I don't see a Phoenix egg down there, do you?
I’m singing through
I’m crying through
The auto-tune is strong.
But it was I who held your arm as the three gravediggers hammered your father’s narrow coffin shut.
Notes on the end of funerals.
Two books consider how U.S. policy ravages the Northern Triangle.
Frida Kahlo meets with Andre Breton in Paris, and things go downhill.