Say you’re not one of those lost people in concrete lots near Malibu and Zuma— the ocean in your eyes waves goodbye to the beach restaurants where you have never ate rockfish tacos— admit you’ve not felt the sting late
Expanding Witness
He burns the skin off their legs to make them walk, make them alive, their deprived metatarsals—skeletal as a map, its barbed lines. Witness to removal—hands to fan the flame, the smell of rotten veins, their exposure to lighter fluid