The Rainbow’s End: Luis Rivas

Introducing Luis Rivas, seems like introducing my favourite writer I got to know this year … his writing, work and attitude towards the world so close to my heart, my vision of the world. I can only recommend the reader to read his poetry fully, addictive, beautifull, heartbreaking but always with reason. I present you the writings from our new non-fiction editor, Luis Rivas … I can only say to Luis: I can’t wait till your work is published and when that time comes, I’ll be one of the first to buy. Enough praise, let the marvel begin! 


Luis Albert Rivas is from Van Nuys, California.  He started writing some time in high school, mainly poetry.  He got more into literature after reading stuff like Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, Louis-Ferdinand Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night and Hemingway’s For Whom the Bells Toll.  At community college, he gravitated toward Journalism and even enjoyed a brief stint on the school’s newspaper, but found it too difficult to write about things that did not interest him in the least.  After eventually dropping out of college, he started working full time at a porn shop, which has turned out to be an endless source of inspiration and at the same time dread. When he’s not working, Luis tries to stay politically involved with serious leftist organizations such as the FMLN, the Salvadoran political party (although Luis is Mexican, not having a single drop of Salvadoran blood in him, he admires and supports this political and social force).  He supports many credible organizations such as; the Communist Party, USA, the UFW (United Farm Workers) and the SOAW (School of the Americas Watch).  He is not a member of any organization as of yet but is still shopping around. Luis believes in many things but most importantly the need to help others using whatever talent or skills one possesses. He is currently living in Echo Park with his girlfriend and their two indoor cats and half-a-dozen outdoor stray cats.  He is planning on putting together two books some time in the near future, a collection of poems and a collection of short stories.  That’s about it for now. 

Five questions of a lifetime.

1)      How does your work and political view influence your writing?

My work and my political views are my work.  It’s kinda weird to imagine what the hell I would write about if I wasn’t working at a sex store and studying Marxism.  I used to not be political but everything I wrote still had this urban setting and spoke about societal issues like homelessness, drug abuse, prostitution and all kinds of fucked up shit.  The more politically aware I became, the sharper my ideology got, the better my writing got – I think so anyway.

2)      You describe the terrors of life and death and the anxiety in between … and you succeed very well. Based on observation or based on experience in life?

Both.  Always both.  I consider myself relatively young in life and in the writing community so much of what I write about is educated speculation, some is direct experience but most is just me flexing the muscles of my insight.

I write about people going crazy because I see it every day at work, on the street and I always try to put myself in that person’s shoes to try to understand how someone’s mind works – the bum talking to himself, living in his mind, pissing his pants, begging for change or someone snapping and letting that inner rage take over.

I observe the randomness all around me.  Mistakes.  Chaos.  Stuff like that.

3)      How did you start your writing, which motivation haunted you to write on social topics?

 Well, I first started writing poems some time in high school, I think.  I don’t know why, really.  I used to be real shy and insecure so I guess I was trying to communicate ideas and thoughts to others because I couldn’t speak them out loud.  I then wrote some essay in English class and my teacher, Mr. Gardner, praised it, called it one of the best in the class and even used it as an example for the class.  That made me feel good, that I had this talent

People that write are people that observe.

The more I wrote, the more I observed my surroundings, my hometown Van Nuys, the drivebys, the drunks, the illegal immigrants and hookers on the corners, both waiting for work, my family life, my younger brother’s association with gang life, prison, drugs, our society, our culture.  It was all there and I took notes.

 Then the big immigration movement and marches started happening and I took part in them, met some individuals and organizations that helped me develop my political ideology.  And I continued writing.  

 4)      Let’s say we’ve been saved and hell follows with it … A more personal question, your writing seems so familiar and yet brings admiration for the way you brought it, the emotion to which the reader can relate. Has life taught you or did you teach life?

I don’t focus on being original in writing; I just try not to be too cliché.  A little cliché is ok.  You just gotta measure it out.  More than anything, I try to be honest in what I write, even when I’m fictionalizing – if that makes any sense.

I taught life to suck my dick, BAM.  I wish I could say that, that I conquered the chaos, the absurd, the unconquerable.  But what can anyone teach life?  Life is teaching all of us, always. 

5)      A question for everyone: when you publish how will you publish and why?

I need to put out at least two books, a collection of short stories and one of poems.  I have a list of things I need to do before I die.  One was to go to a country in Latin America and help out in an effective way; I recently went to El Salvador and participated in the 2009 elections as an International Observer.  The other thing on my to-do-before-I-eat-shit-and-die list is to write at least two little books.  So yea.

I send manuscripts out as often as I can make the time to organize them and find same-minded publishers.  I’ve entered a couple of writing contests this year too with the feature prize of being published, so hopefully I win.



80 Grit Sandpaper 

we would start

off with 80 grit
sandpaper and
finish the job with
finer 100 or 200
grit paper to make
it look nice and
smooth. we were
cousins with the
same name, luis y
luis. we waited
inside the cemetery
in zacatecas,
mexico in the early
gray morning with
all the poor kids
and ran up to
strangers and asked
them if they needed
a grave cleaned and
sanded they’d be
stricken with
grief, flowers in
hand, making their
way to the grave of
a dead husband or
father or mother or
son and we’d give
them a good deal:
40 pesos (around 5
dollars back then)
per grave. we’d
spend anywhere from
30 minutes to about
an hour on the
bigger gravestones
sanding the black
and green mold off,
twisting and
pinching the paper
to reach inside the
crevices of the
engravings and
corners, our skinny
fingers guiding the
paper inside the
detail. it was
hard work, and we
were too young to
feel anything. We
did our job and
afterward we spent
the money in the
videogame arcade
and bought ice
cream. we were
smarter than our
parents because we
understood death,
being so close to
birth, and we knew
that life made
sense like that,
sanding graves for
pesos to play
streetfighter 2 and
eat lemon flavored
ice cream. all the
poor kids did it.
it’s a very stable
career; poor kids
will continually be
born and graves
will never run out.

Published in Unlikely Stories, December 2006. 




this poem is a gun

that each word is

a bullet

by itself

it will do nothing

but in the right hands

it can serve a purpose

and in the wrong hands

the same still holds true

now imagine

a dozen of these

in the right hands

and that there is only one

target, a shared aim

through violent means

like nechayev

like geronimo

like crazy horse

like mandela

like the fighters of algeria

it can cause change

imagine if the impulse

to write a poem was replaced

with the urge to organize

to load a clip and go after

those that want nothing

more than to exploit

plunder and capitalize

off others, our misfortune

bank of america

goldman sachs

jp morgan & chase



western hemispheric institute

for security cooperation

nafta, cafta

and our entire modern

market economy

a bullet in the head

of every CEO, board member

rapist, liar, plunderer

profiteer, office holder


that this poem is a gun

and that there are thousands of them

ready to change the face of the country

or at least scar it trying.

 Aliens Who Barely Exist

_________ barely existed.

_________ wasn’t a US citizen,

not even human; _________ was

an illegal alien who had to change

his name many times; _________

had to lie about his address;

_________ had to lie about his birth

date; _________ had to change his

hair many times – from parting it

on the side, to slicking it all back,

to even shaving it off completely.

_________ was an ex-guerilla

in the civil war of El Salvador

back in the 80’s, and would never

be allowed to become a US citizen;

_________ saw friends die and kill,


and after surviving something he

didn’t except to he was faced with

the ex-guerilla’s ultimate dilemma:

what now?

_________ served a few prison

terms; _________ was deported and

came back again with a new name, a

new haircut; _________ could only

find work in warehouses, factories,
bath houses and porno shops, places

that didn’t mind hiring aliens who

barely existed.

and _________ will keep running

and working, barely existing the entire

time, only finding peace in the

thought that wherever he is buried

his tombstone will finally reveal

his true birth date and maybe even

his true name.

Published in CounterPunch, Weekend Edition, Nov 13-15, 2009.

As I Wonder Why My Kitchen Knives are Missing
as i wonder why my kitchen
knives are missing, where
have they gone to, as i see
the sun setting in my rear-
view mirror, as i smell
burning plastic and worry
that it’s coming from my car,

i say to myself,
this makes sense.

as i grill a year-old frozen
turkey burger patty, watching
it turn grey, as i see a
nation joining together in
patriotic unity to deport,
discriminate, persecute and
hate illegal immigrants,
as i see little R’s, D’s and
I’s next to politicians
names, and hate them all
for perpetuating broken free
trade policies, for
perpetuating ruthless, self-
centered private interests,

and then i think about levis,
starbucks, american idol,
gap, economic stimulus
checks, the freedom to buy
water all the way from fiji,

and i say to myself,
yes, this makes sense.

as i pay $8 for a plate of
korean bbq beef and rice, as
i think about people keeling
over dead from hunger, as i
tip $3 for gratuity, as i see
nations expressing their
right to sovereignty, as i
see the united states calling
these same nations terrorist,
or terrorist supporters, as i
put $35 in my gas tank, as a
homeless man walks around the
city shitting his pants,
begging for spare change, as
i give a dollar to the one-
legged bum that lies about
fighting in ‘nam, as a 16-
year-old girl comes up to me,
prostitutes herself for drugs
or a place to sleep, as i
pull the cigarette from my
lips to tell her the way to
the shelter in sylmar, as i
give $149.15 each week for
taxes and other state/federal
deductions, as i give the
homeless 43-year-old guy
advice on putting together a
good resume, as i applaud the
religious for having the
courage to look away and say
that everything is as it was
meant to be, and how it will
be better when you’re dead,

as i take out the burnt grey
turkey burger patty, as i
think about shooting people
who refuse to think in the
better interest of others,

i say to myself
yes, this makes sense.

as my 26th birthday nears,
i hope it’s my last.

as i see my dad on his bike,
i ask about my brother;
why don’t you kick him out?
make him earn his own. as i
hear my stern, disciplinarian
dad tell me that he’s afraid
to kick my brother out
because at least this way,
him living at home, they know
where he is and he doesn’t
have to worry about
him dying in the street, as i
type, as i breathe, as i
wait, as i worry about my
relationship with my
girlfriend, questioning the
validity of my jealousies, as
i see everyone around me
completely surrendered to
their private routine,
consumed by life,

i think to myself,
i need to pay my cell phone
bill, $60.

Published in Thieves Jargon, August 2008, Issue # 172.

Dreams of The Contractor

i have these dreams

where i finally find and confront

the private contractor who never

paid me or my brother for a couple

weeks of cement mixing, painting

plastering and general construction

work, where i try hard in controlling

my breathing, trying not to let the

rage take over, how i coolly explain

to him that we either handle this by

immediate payment or i stick a

knife in his throat

and he says that he’s sorry and

that he doesn’t have the money

and his eyes turn into deer eyes

and i can’t stop from shaking

feeling my anger taking over

almost crying with rage and relief

stabbing him, thrusting my pocket

knife into his neck as deep as i can

picturing my grip completely going

through his throat, searching his deer

eyes, soft and almond shaped

watching his sick, cheating, greedy

exploiting life leave his body, his

eyes turning gray and dull, then

pulling the knife out and doing it

again, glad, relieved that i’m doing

this, that it has come down to this

scenario, that it ended with him not

willing or wanting to pay because

i have wanted this

but i am hoping, hoping i don’t find

him but secretly i am wanting nothing

else more and i’ve been carrying

a knife ever since

Good Writing

good writing pisses me off

a good poem, simple in its form

but awesome in its impact, that has

its hooks in you from the beginning

and ends with you backing away hurt

epiphanies swimming in your brain

like electric eels, stinging at all

the right places

or a good short story that can keep

a good momentum, sustaining it

like a symphony, fluctuating with its

ferocity but never failing and finally

ending perfectly with all the characters

different, the same or dead

or a good book that you read in silence

that questions the very way you’ve

been living your life, that challenges you

to look at things differently, to drink,

to smoke, to fuck, to love more – or less

to vote or organize or yell or set off

explosives in government building parking lots

good writing pisses me off

the competition is discouraging

In El Salvador

 in El Salvador

there are heavily-armed

security guards in front

of Burger King

Honda dealerships

and luxury hotels

while the stench from

a rotting run-over dog

on the street saturates

the hot, tropical air

and the shoeless kids

that perform fire-blowing

and juggling at street

intersections smell this

and debate on whether

they could eat it without

getting sick or die

but eventually decide

to keep hustling for

spare change, their feet

so black from walking

on the asphalt that they look

like they’re wearing black

dress socks

in El Salvador

it is considered a luxury

to hang out in shopping

malls occupied by

transnational companies

that do not need to

worry about U.S. federal

minimum wage laws

paying Salvadorans

$10 a day – what some

Californians make an hour

their only worry being

about the burgers

the new Civic models

the new HD widescreen

in the lobby of the

American hotel

their automatic rifles

and shotguns always ready

and loaded, aiming

at the heads of desperate

hungry, shoeless kids

asking for spare change

threatening the quiet peace

of a country’s genocide.

 My Heart is from Mexico but My Blood is as Mexican as a Taco Bell Burrito

i confuse people;

when latinos approach me,

struggling with english,

they are surprised that i’m

answering back in spanish,

and so they ask where i’m

from: españa, chile? no, i say,

but close.  ah, ok, they say,

seeing me sipping yerba mate;

argentina, brasíl? no, i say,

but close.  ah, ok, they say,

hearing me occasionally use

central american slang; el salvador?

no, i say, but close.  and they

hear me listening to cúmbias,

mambos, spanish rock, looking at

me, at my light skin, at my

straight brown hair, not knowing

my mother’s red hair and hazel eyes,

not knowing i was a blonde baby,

naming all the countries in latin

america, starting down south and

moving up to and passing central

america, running out of names and

finally saying, ah, méxico? and i say,

no, but close; i’m from van nuys,

california; but my heart, that’s

from méxico, as well as all of those

places; though my blood, polluted by

hollywood and community college

english classes and american fast food, 

that’s as mexican as a taco bell burrito.


sitting at the BURGUNDY ROOM

on Cahuenga

drinking with a friend

trying to forget

the fact that we’re


on Cahuenga

a girl comes up to me

touches my shoulder

and says NAPOLEON

i say: what?

she says: NAPOLEON

i say: what?

she says: oh, you

look like a friend

of mine: NAPOLEON.

you know, from



i say: i look like


she goes on: no, you know,



when they go back in time

and pick up NAPOLEON.

my friend doesn’t look

anything like him but

he’s French and you

look like my friend,


i say: oh.

she says something about

saving her a seat

and leaves.

my friend gets up

to go to the bathroom

a girl takes his seat

a beautiful girl

takes his seat

and I am stunned but

I say nothing

because of many reasons

five minutes pass

she gets up and her

friend takes the seat

her less attractive

slightly bigger friend

takes the seat

i promptly tap her

on the shoulder

and let her know

that my friend’s

in the bathroom

will be out soon

but she could sit

there until he gets out

it’s okay


she gets upset

points out the fact

that her friend

had been sitting here

for at least 5 minutes

etc. — accuses me of lying

my friend comes out

she is still upset

but gets up anyway

all i have left now

is the hope or delusion

that the girl

from before

will come back and

think that i am


somewhere along the line

everyone gave up on the truth.

No One Knows that I’m Mexican

No one knows that I’m Mexican.

Even Mexicans can’t tell.  It’s a secret.

Going to Mexican bars, the juke box blaring

Vicente Fernandez gets turned down, the pool

games are paused and I get dirty looks from

everyone, the painters, the gangsters,

the cowboys – judgments in their hearts.

The bartenders avoid me; I am discriminated

against for being white and in the wrong

place.  When the bartenders finally speak,

it’s broken English and I answer back in Spanish;

and they are always astonished, wondering how

this gringo can speak such good Spanish,

es good, es good, hablas bien!

But they still prefer speaking English

to me and they still resent me for figuring out

their secret language so I always give up and

answer back in English, wishing my skin darker,

my ethnicity more obvious.

Going to Mexican restaurants, going

up to the counter, the short dark girl with

the apron says hi, redy tu oder? and I’m

jealous of her skin tone and I say, si

and give my order: dos tacos de carne

adobada con una horchata, grande.

And she is shocked, relieved but shocked.

The cooks in the back say mira, el gringo

habla bien as they piss in my beans.

Habla Bien is my new name.

No one knows that I’m Mexican.

Even Mexicans can’t tell.  It’s a secret.

But I’ve been in jail and I own a pair of

Nike Cortez and used to play soccer and

I was apart of the anti-187 walkouts in the

90’s while I was in Jr. High but

I did get a D in Spanish class, twice.

When the cops pull me over and write me a

ticket they look at the picture and the last

name on my ID, to determine my race

and check off the appropriate box on the ticket,

never getting it right, checking off Caucasian/white.

My name is Luis Alberto Rivas,

not Lewis or Louis or Louise.

My parents came from a city called Jerez

in a state called Zacatecas in Mexico.

I was born in Los Angeles but I was never

injected with Caucasian blood.

I want to be cremated when I die;

and as I burn, the proper skin tone

will finally show itself and I will die

darker and truer. 

Published in Unlikely Stories, December 2006. 

The Arrangement

a roach crawls

across my hand;

i watch its antennae

stretching out,

cautiously weighing out

the next move.

i feel pity for it

and myself, but

mostly for it –

our arrangement,

our circumstances –

nothing is under

our control except

our choice to pick

what philosophy

we decide to

be tricked by.

The Children in Front of the Church

He came into

the porn shop

rapidly blinking

his eyes

looking weak

and sick

his head trembling


a clear

soft-brown and

innocent face

of 12 years

“Can I see some ID


as he showed

me his Mexico City ID


the actual

age of 20

I caught his eyes

brown and vulnerable

and I became

12 again in Mexico

walking pass

the begging families

with their children

and their skinny

outstretched arms

asking for

spare change

in front of the

old Catholic churches

unable to look

in their eyes

I walked away

I remembered

how sad I felt

how sad it was


too young

back then

to have any money

to give them

I thought about life

how big and empty

everything was

being 12

how all of us

sufferers and



the same end

and how badly

we all had it

I remembered

it seeming unfair

in the streets

of Mexico

back then

at an early age

and meeting it with

directionless anger

because I couldn’t

put the blame

on anyone

or anything

and then the

children disappeared

into the streets

the churches dissolved

into a grey Mexican sky

and I became

a 21-year-old clerk

at a porn shop


at a spastic


with a

12-year-old’s face

he saw my eyes

regain awareness

and become glossy

with hesitant tears

and he blinked


turned around

and walked into

the video room

still twitching

and blinking

his head jolting

into unvarying nods

he picked up a

movie case

en español titled

“Adolescentes Con

Senos Turgentes”

strained to control

the twitching

forcing his eyes

to just

stay OPEN               

and as the nodding

stopped momentarily

a smile

slowly grew

on his face

he brought the movie

to the counter

not knowing

the language

but having memorized

the routine

and I wanted

to talk

to him about

Luis J. Rodriguez

Pablo Neruda

Octavio Paz

Pedro Pietri

Federico Garcia Lorca

and the small children

in front of

the churches

and about my family

my father

my brother in jail

and how lost

I feel

I wanted to

let it all

spill out

to cry and confess

my awesome fear

of everything

and how frustrated

I am with myself

that I can only convey

what I truly feel through

the ambiguity of

overly sentimental

unread and failed

narrative poems

but I didn’t

“Three dollars for

half an hour

per movie

tres dolares por

media hora

por cada pelicula

you pay inside

the booth

you’ll be in

booth 4

si, cuatro

need any change?


ok, thank you


here’s your remote

yes, you need

a remote to

watch the movie

booth 4

keep it clean

thank you”


he squinted

his head jerking

harder now

nodding upon

the nodding


and anxious

he took the remote

and walked away

from me

The Editors

i know what online literary magazine

editors do on weekend mornings

without hangovers or girls to worry

about or to kick out of  bed or to

try to frantically remember someone

to call from jail for bail money or to

try to figure out where the fuck

you fuckin parked the fuckin car

editors wake up at around 9 am

thinking that that is sleeping in

they make eggs, sunny side up

turkey bacon, lightly fried

with extra virgin olive oil, turn

on the coffee pot (the new filter

preemptively put in last night)

these same editors will turn on

the computer while petting their cats

with gay names, rubbing their backs

and log into their e-mail accounts

drooling over all the new meat, all

the submissions that they will have

to devour and slash through

and once all their eggs, sunny side up

and turkey bacon, lightly fried with

extra virgin olive oil, are eaten

and when most of the submissions are

read, criticized, some completely skipped

over altogether, and the rest placed at the

bottom of the pile to be read weeks or

months later and eventually forgotten,

they will place their fork and knife

down and get dressed for the day –

just like that, having taken lives,

some more deserving than others,

having eaten them, ingested them,

digesting their overly-crafted words into

flatulence, just like that they will walk

among us, guiltless:

cannibals in daylight.

To Make Pancakes at 9 PM With Vegetable Oil Because You’re Out of Butter

it was an impulse

to make pancakes

at 9 PM

we were out of butter

so she was using

vegetable oil

that’s when

I heard her yell

the oil had splashed

on her left hand

and right foot

she was screaming

I told her to put

toothpaste on the burns

(something a friend’s

mom once said) (or

something I saw

on tv) (memories

and tv reruns

are hard to tell

apart) so she placed

the toothpaste

on the burns

then yelled LOUDER

she tried ice

and leaving her hand

under running water

but the pain was

intense and forever

so I went to Walgreens

and spent $15 on

burn relief creams

and that didn’t work

so I called

the paramedics

they came and looked

at her burns

2nd degree burn

on the left hand

1st degree burn

on the right foot

they took her away

and one of them looked

at me and said

is she your –?

i said –roommate

he said –Ok

they led her

out the door

her walking slowly


each step intensifying

the pain

i thanked them

locked the door

and went back

to the tv

with a paper plate

filled with

cold pancakes

alone and happy

the reverberating

silence substituting

the memories of

her screams

What He Should’ve Said

(Dedicated to Teresa Mestizo)

when mexico’s election was stolen

by felipe calderon and vicente fox

and the entire national conservative party

with the help of the other corrupt

parties and organizations, when entire ballot

boxes were destroyed and disappeared

yes, the cameras were there and so

were the dissident groups and the students

the workers, the communists, the poor

always the poor, everyone ready and

waiting for something, for lopez obrador

running candidate of the center-leftist party

to say something but all that was said was

we do not want violence, let’s demonstrate

putting trust on the national/international media

and some strange belief that this cannot

happen, the people will not allow a stolen

election, but the people of mexico are used to this

to abuse, used to a beating, used to sleeping

without dreaming, used to the way the sky and

sidewalk blend together in common gray

used to talking about hope as if it were a rare

and mythical fruit, imaging its form and flavor

with so much desperation that if the

people of mexico weren’t so used to sadness

they would shed a tear, but no one cries anymore

they’re used to it, used to a dysfunctional government

where officials and leaders have been bought

and sold, working on bribes so much so that it’s

a sustainable and constant source of income

what lopez obrador should’ve said three years

ago when the people rallied behind him, awaiting

instructions, a response to the national congress

naming felipe calderon new president of mexico

what he should’ve said three years ago

what needed to be said in 2006 was this:

people, it is time to put down the peace signs

it is time to put down the bull horn, leave the

political pamphlets at home, please


people, it is time you pick up your rifle

and if you do not own one, go down to the

gas station, fill up a bucket and steal bottles


of alcohol, cut up a shirt and stuff it inside

make sure to leave enough out so that it gives you

time to throw it, load them alt into the back of your pickup


and drive it down to mexico city, down to the

presidential residence, down to the center of

corruption, line up the office holders, the bank CEOs


execute and kidnap every last robbing bastard

bomb the government buildings, symbols of deceit

of treachery nearly a century old


people, it is time we rise up and take back the

country for it has not been ours for more than

70 years; our system, down to its very core


 including the electoral process, is broken, damaged

beyond repair, so let us substitute it all with a true

working democracy, made up and governed by the people


the working people, by the poor, by the indigenous

the teachers: a constituent assembly, guaranteeing

each a job, a home; promising national sovereignty


political self-determination, an end to our involvement

in NAFTA, banning the ability to be rich, a radical

dispersion of the national wealth


and many people will die in this transformation

but death is necessary and a part of the sacrifice

of change


for if we do nothing now, if we just roll over

it will only happen again each election, each president

perpetuating the false ghost of a dead democracy 

“Promotional Piece”

Luis opted out for the promotional piece. He preferred to send you this message: I don’t have a website or anything to promote other than telling people to put pressure on their respective representatives to vote for health care reform WITH A PUBLIC OPTION, to close down the school of the americas, to vote for employee free choice act.

Published by lenavanelslander

Lena Vanelslander swam many waters. History, Comparative Culture Analysis, Languages, Mythology, Literature, Poetry, too many to sum up. After a life of tribulations the turning point came in her mid twenties: she started to write actively poetry in English. Her melancholic and darkminded nature colour her poems to an individual signature in both time and space. Poems got published in the Stray Branch, Savage Manners, the Delinquent and The Sylvan Echo. Her first chapbook ‘Ma Chanson de Rien du Tout’ has been released in September this year. Her first book of poetry, written with Marilyn Campiz, Quills of Fire, will appear in November 2009. Currently she edits writers' profiles for and

One thought on “The Rainbow’s End: Luis Rivas

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