Roberto Bolano's Third Reich
by Armando Ortiz
Bolano is meant to be read
at the edge of the city, where the ocean meets land, and honey baked skinned
birds flutter about, with locks of gold.
Where you see cinnamon
women with floating feet, smelling of sweet navel oranges, and yellow lemon
flavored, sweet and sour to the tongue.
On the coast of the city,
where the sun dangles above the desert mirage, with waves of dizzying spells, and
waters that sway like an old rocking chair, an endless roller coaster ride, a
continuous ocean signal of distress, filtered with the conscious mind of bliss.
I'm happy with my L.A.,
lost in its wilderness of surprise, where short men with moon goddesses walk
about, and her morning voice haunts these memories, with body reliving the
times I bit down her areola.
Bolano lacks citrus in his
writing, because he was happy with black bread, wine and cheese, but it’s as
good as it gets.
The edge of Los Angeles,
is where the West ends, and citrus auras envelop all where book and sun come
alive.
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