Flames and sandpaper tongues lick you in cat hell/
At this point I
At one point or another I'd like to think we've all heard the voice of dog. He appears at times like this in the late winter when the weather is uncertain. His breath is disgusting. Think back to all the places where you've found his portraits. For me, his big murky oil paintings of waterfalls and pine forests hang in the lobby of an old apartment building beside an empty basement cafe.