Ruth of the Boeings

Feeling the cold of July like an European mannequin at the metropolitan edge: Ruth of the Boeings.

Everything in her is borderline, antennal, analog

at the colorless anesthetic osone of Balvanera, her hands smell like soap and spikes wristband when the cold heavy metal caresses her palms napalms under a hard sun gelid:
I don't care.

Ruth of the Boeings prefers the rude guy of toughened heart and sweaty Seiko
Ruth of the Boeings always waits one more day:

late at night, in her suburban cave, she gnaws the stalactites of her vermouth watching the screen of the New World:

the morning finds her unstitched in her coffin, pink and disjointed like a ñandú lasered in Venado Tuerto.






The noon will see Ruth of the Boeings dressed with her combat outfit, strolling through the peripheral radio of the Paris wannabe among moving suitcases:

over the coastal platform of escape, more Boeings pass by, deafening a sky that is like a never barometrically tested steely midheaven.




Ruth of the Boeings
perhaps just a shadow of my subconscious.