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This poem is halfway between David Allen and Charles Bukowski.

Somebody makes a pseudo-stupid joke at my son Quique in the street —something I’ll never understand. Pablo looks at me with his best “what the hell just happened, did you get it?” and our telepathy fails for a moment, and I have to make do with expressing my thoughts with words, and in front of

As you know, I went to New York recently. My first goal was to see Starry Night, by Van Gogh, and my second goal to visit The Stonewall Inn, a legendary place. The spot where all the LGBTIQ+… etc. liberation movement started. Willow came too, you can see her looking happy in this pic:   Willow deserves her own