Por Fin by Lago Milagros

August in Woodside “That ain’t freedom. You pussywhipped by the idea of heaven.” Gordo said, brown-eyed with crimson lines like blood lightning. “You wildin’ son” replied Teka, as he took the last swig of Aguardiente, before shading in the letters on the brick canvas, behind the bodega on 64th St. “Where God at tho?” Continued […]