now that February
us several absences are also
recurrence of a notebook recovered somewhat recovered another notebook
lost others, finally edging
the geocenter and geology
of his song
that no more than muffled condition
a geography, a genealogy
articulated above the dense string
stone, quartz
the magnificent shadow of light geofonía
intense, immense geolatría
Opening the notebook
a. The log
Country Journal
The second visit was vital. Or say, final: it was like the wine on the back of Vinicius de Moraes: pure honey. Or almost. He lacked that degree. That was what was proposed.
One Landscapes. Two
. The secret caves
(btw, that picture was called Nana and the Wolf, and was painted in 1996)
Three. One avenue, forest, shivering with a piano: the background music as relief.
What else? Perhaps a maddening
intoxicating.
A dance. A surprise. Anything, as long as the rate or give ease to the sound cumbia, that was also a serious matter, of canon and everything: "The rumba is culture," he said. Like everything and nothing could be culture. And it was not (n).
b. -
Ahote, at the end of September the ninth century atrocious, a brand to stay
The eight square, always imperfect, of a paper napkin while one expects a coffee arinático
air
The parenthesis contains references to another reality, another time, another (very different) folly. Just like now, when one notes that psychology is a loaded arna white water. The continuity of the books, now that one can not let go, for the first time in a pen some
tienpo
Upon his return, he wrote on a napkin from the coffee that did not:
c. - Letting
traces remain, and germinate
For this to have a sense
d. -
yesterday left behind. Today, despite the cold air, we should take forward. September and summer are not a memory, or a reference. What was left open, still pending. The holes should continue to fill. Tenders and intentions prevail. Like a worn formula, the numbers are repeated after: an hour, two weeks, Vaez etena from the first, second, aromatic, a discovery, infinity, permeating everything.
And all that was flailing, was arranged on the table
Towards the end of the book
1.-It is like saying
2.-and do not ask for help
3 .-
zero and ininito
the poet says, glaring,
before the ruins of the wall Berlin
page four hundred and seven
memory
(silence of the moon)
when
...
4 .-not know, finally, what to do
5 .-
Autumn Leaves gives us
In fact, the few phrases that disaster artiulan
A cracked wall
Seconds smoke hours after's of the intoxication of the aromas
always giving time to stumble
monotonous ritual celebration of the flesh
Eager illusion of a well-planted field
Nothing to anyone in a cold, cunning
only a few puffs to accompany the repetition of the offense that seems to cave
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