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The verses that I keep

While folding clothes and I think you have some mates. You are far, talking on the phone and planning what this afternoon. You laugh, go and come through the house, talking to herself and you're happy. You leave your yard mandarins and is sure to sweep you put as there is sun bags blankets to ventilate the summer days are gone. Meanwhile, think rich dishes for us. Days and days of delicacies. I know.

And I here I hate to make pairs of socks and I get bored looking for what goes with what, I remember small details. What kinds thankless task Silent mothers, no one sees how long it takes! How many socks folded in your life, Mom? What if you did not see all that? And when I say that, piled half-pans, pots, brooms, beds, floors, beds, stews more birthday cakes, fever, aspirin and some tea with honey-dust-shirts, socks.

There is always half there, in the hands of mothers.

As here, now as harmonious pairs and double.

Today I write a poem, but I can not, I get hugs wasteful worn words. How I found for you mom said not a word! And yet these pairs of socks do most prolific than ever, thinking you the verses that I keep, Verses bow stretched and filled with memories redonditos yours.

White with white for example.

and displays the jasmine in your yard, your embroidered linen tablecloths and sheets drying in the open westerly to dilate the air over long heel heel as you travel down the hall flourished, and black to turn it into green black Colombian green you do not like English, is dark. No matches your eyes that shine too. And again with long, long stretch stockings are the road to advance. Winding Road 5 that never learned to love. And that you should love it because it is the path that leads me straight to you. But the hate and fear him, much more to do pairs of socks. So how angry I fear, quickly fold up with par. And again, dyed white with white corn and extend the days you did a cookie on our toes and your kitchen is blonde and ocher color that I like to remember the field. When soybean invaded everything and it was a golden wheat field here and there beyond sorghum sunflowers, grass. You see mom, fold socks, something as mundane and I can not write either a poem, I who write daily.

be a thing of shame for that daughter, who from time to time and that gives me the verses callus keep me.

(I will not be around here for a few days, today is the birthday of my old one - turns 80! - And I'm with her, spoil her as she deserves.

I'm going for my payments)


... and as I am a quemocursi in black bitches, I dedicate the program on Saturday:)

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Flares folklore "or death?

Iba e scriber about something else, but a flare with a high probability of killing someone is chasing me.

died yesterday a kid named Ramirez in the recital of the Renga. A flare was stabbed in the neck or face are not, the truth is that had nine days of agony and left at age 32, leaving a wife, two sons and a third child on the road. What was his folly? Go to a concert without personal safety equipment since.

to go hear a band, go to watch football or attending any event popular with people "piola-funny-copada" is needed in the Argentina personal protective equipment.

This team is a special clothing and a range of accessories that give a medium security to the user. I say "medium" because they create a false sense of security, and the concert you believing you're going recontento RoboCop and fun-lanyard was given to shoot with something more powerful to have the adrenaline to stop you know? and do not tell the story.

The next time you dare to go to one of these places, remember that you have to dress like you're going to war: helmets, special glasses, gas masks, gloves, ear plugs, fire suit boots, welder's masks, bulletproof vest, respirator. I notice you, if you insist on going to those places in sneakers, jeans and remerita, hacete charge, do not come to mourn later.

Here no one cares for you. The laws are for non-compliance. The searches are for giles. Those who carry flares, alcohol, weapons and other toys for fun in a stadium, still going body searches and hot dogs for your house, just look a little bit a match on TV and it's hard to tell a celebration of fire.

Now, after having attended to 193 totally preventable deaths in Cromañón, how is it possible to continue celebrating with sparklers?

When buying fireworks scorched forget that died drowned and 193 teenagers who were trampled to Cromañón with the idea of \u200b\u200bdancing and singing in a recital.

I say it's folklore.

I say it's folklore!

Well, we are a full turnips if after all these deaths continue to insist with folklore. Ma 'What folklore, let's not nonsense to deaths we are seeing nothing in the name of it, because.
die because.
I just do not go to the head such a contradiction!

now is operating at another kid, who to save his life it was necessary to collect one million dollars. A palo verde! And Solidarity was so great that the money came together to save a life. And it will continue raising money behind this guy, is the operation of their brethren who have the same evil. What pride as a society come together to save a life. And with that, something inside me a little noise: Between the precious life of this boy whose life was at risk for a disease and the precious life of the boy who was killed by a flare, what is the difference? Why as a society, as a country can rise and stand in solidarity with a noble cause as the miracle of Augustine while shooting flares to keep buying the boleo in a recital, in a game or an amusement park knowing that we can kill someone or die?

Does life have more value in some people than others? Do we sympathize with the disease and to health emboldened us and not give ball?

The fireworks is dangerous both for the wearer, to the unwary that comes to mind go to one of these events without regulatory protection equipment (meaning the regulatory team as an irony, please).

yesterday watched a video where a man great, a great lord again. Surely a parent, surely put some money for "a miracle for Augustine" threw flares at a football game, completely out, did not have enough hands between flares and the lighter and the cigar in his mouth, at times even seemed confused and not know if you put in the mouth the cigar or the flare. A guy like that, in addition to sawdust, which is inside?

Folklore crazy! -Tell-

folklore.

(and a murderer is a potential murderer waiting for the moment)

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Crazy little thing called love. Heaven

Y.

The challenged him, I told him everything. I can not repeat because they give an ugly impression of me, but to give you an idea, I was Mengele. I told him what is believed, just with that. That what is intended! That was what foul thing!. Chancha said. If sow. Failed to tell me here writing and burning the eyelashes, while you wallow in the mud you with that. Because I do say the word mud. Although not is a flirtatious word is in my vocabulary, what can I do. Well, I said that the mud and just with that. No, I imagined something else to it.

I tell them that this is a dirty, filthy, stinking deadbeat, that is just for that.

"It" is what they are thinking the crap .

And she so happy. She looks at me with those eyes I love, that do not know where to go daring her stomach sac. Because when I find doing this, I'm not going to give more authority because you already know what I mean, to me a lot and challenge it takes for evil. And I open the door and shouted that between dog Wednesday, and she gets made a bundle of fear, all stretched to be little one and its tail like a fan in the very movement that speaks and says perdonameperdonameperdoname nolovoy ahacermas nolohagomasnolohagomas and I know the wretched lie to me, because at first neglect zaz! but forgive and after a while I stroked his head and still in penance and say naughty malportada, Crazy little thing called love.

And we are friends again.

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And suddenly the air unleashed in these hands

sky made me a tip nailed

on roofs and windows.

Thief heights in walls borrowed

maze leaves dogged in

biting bare branches

warm streets

the morning sun .

is rare autumn

when these hands of mine

are

unmoored as loose flowers in the jar.

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floral pattern Yonder

Yonder

when May was a party school two

starched white

with rosettes and frost on the sidewalks ,

and gaps in the square linden

when May was all yours and mingled with the hymn

and the flag flying at the mast

three quarters and half legs cooled me

nothing seemed closer and warm

that evening half-month

together in the kitchen

cloaked in the smell of chocolate

churros and escaped from your hands,

old.

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Please, a little humility

I like evil pride in people. On second thought is not a rarity mine, I do not think you go through life wanting to meet cocky and conceited. Do not leave my house wanting to cross paths with people who think a god and is willing to show you how stupid that you are at every step.

Because we have to see how smart they are, all they have gained by being so regal. And poor you, you always look so wilted parsley. All good to have high self-esteem, there are thousands of self-help books out there that you say it facilitated. I'd like to believe more and more like it and feel happier with myself and all that surely would give me greater security, but then to go through life wasting pedantry ... There is a stretch that besides being huge, exhausted. I do not know if it depletes the insurmountable, but which is across the supremely bored.

Sooner or later someone tells you in the face: you're a moron important. And that with luck, there never tell and the divine will as a haughty peacock for life with all your wisdom, never realizing that it is a lead and how far to awaken admiration, awake slumber.

The admiration is raised from elsewhere and humility are not bought in the market, or in bookstores, or learn in universities.

That has to do with education, can be a genius and a perfect rude.

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unhook as Spiderman, fall and expand to cover you with its sticky web.

You do not want, what you'll want! But you know what to expect.

you crush the wall like a wet spot. Diluís you on the floor like a puddle of water. You look the other way to face I was not. I camouflaged with what you have on hand, you're a Maderita the park, are the newspaper, you're the bag hanging from the chair, the cold kills the phone silent, you are what is needed to be to save, but they do not let up know they're cuddly and when you were five. A tender morsel to swallow. And stay there as Poe's raven and tell you "never again" hundreds of times or whatever you say, because they always have a workhorse to give you and give you until you were shot and droopy eyes.

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Bad thoughts again! Three

E s the other day I got tired of breathing in my ear and said goodbye to little more than shouting. I said very clearly to leave. Leave me alone to do things, that the sun was shining in the window there, I like the autumn leaves, put me not to look at the day as if it were a kind of plague that goes off the calendar, I thought he was stirring with the wooden spoon as a burnt stew, which was fine.

A good listener, few words.

The banished, then felt a genius. Viva yo!

This morning I opened one eye, nothing here, nothing there, everything was fantastic and I jumped out of bed.

Ah, the p ...!

A stitch in the sole of my foot, it should aim to pierce the only shard of glass that is not where it came from and went to the foot of my bed. No choice but to take it out of there. I address myself to the bathroom to find a clip and ... Again! And over and over and the hall looks like a fakir's bed, terrified look at the floor waiting to see nails on end and there is nothing. But my feet are burning like they walking on hundreds of tips.

is it, thrown it back. I do not know what to call it, but it's here, confined to the soles of my feet.

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He read a poem by Quino and suddenly I felt this bond between love and invisible threads. What generates the love, which moves in and out. This direct connection to poetry, whether with words, verses. The only thing missing is the look. There is poetry in the middle of a dance, in a melody. A drawing escaped from warm hands, a painted sun in the eyes of those we love, that's poetry.

is shake your own world when restless and look, but do not say anything, still, there is no poetry without words. And everyday events, even in the desolation, boredom is a thread of poetry. A conductor of heat that keeps you alive, you soft in my ear says, "and better days will come," and hits you back to cheering for you stand up and follow, the fresh air you do not know where it comes from, is poetry. That slight breeze is a thread of love that falls on you and you holds.

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There is poetry in the morning

Startled in the middle of night I think: Is a horde of Taliban lay down their arms? Is the rock that came off the tracks and through my neighborhood "The troop of wild horses has been released from the film and worth celebrating being alive? A giant is snoring? A group of Chinese geologists crossed the land and are coming right here? Is it a worker with a jackhammer working at this hour? Is by breaking down the wall? -. It's three in the morning.

Not so.

washing is the "automatic" my neighbor.

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That night I saw her pass me by without her seeing me, I sensed doom. I have called and tell her, but who was I to say anything. A great chill came over me. She did not ever knew, but I got ice, while my eyes were wet his emaciated shadow lost in the crowd. It was now time to return, but she did not return, not going anywhere, wandering through a city that used to spit their venom. She could not return, had no where to go, life had hit a kick in the stomach and bent like the letter U groping, without seeing, without suspecting how close to the edge was.

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Yesterday I asked if I was to write in bars. And no, in the bars I hang around I see, I become scattered and tibia.

I hit a window as "little boy who looked outside, as those things I would never" , but from the inside and go after any of this earth angel .

After any tag I want to take.