often write things that come to mind at the most unexpected, then, while I am going with some surprise rediscovering old bar napkins in paper folded between two pages of a book, brochures backs who lost life, one of the many books that opened with that vague perseverance will then betrayed. Today I clean my pockets:
Oregano, thyme and dill (and do not know if basil). Cut fries to poor, with onions, Julienne. All this mixed with cheese.
"The truth is somewhere between documentary and fiction" (Frank Capra).
How to save when refueling diesel? Fill
-morning, early.
-Do not you have downloaded half of the deposit.
-Press very Light hose.
The clear brackets, the line stops.
unexpected discovery of a poet with whom, oh vagaries of light, at last connect: José Emilio Pacheco.
What matter of things is that they are, or how they are?
Among the many forms it takes machismo, more disturbing is that he turned against the male.
'm here with you as the cloud slowly
expires on the world
the harbinger of boom.
Order, order and reorder ... So it has been since I remember, so will (¿?).
ignorance of art, its implicit contempt is not in any way an innocent act, and its effect on the future man will be crucial, decisive ...
Poetry and exercise (and by extension their extensive literature) has helped me to create me the illusion of being an accomplice skein of thread in this bland all-encompassing, all-engulfing, it has helped me look in the mirror and, from time to time, contemplate with a volume of human dignity that never knew me the football, for instance, or his trail of useless conversation.
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