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The country, weíd say
we put it on tables,
we carried it everywhere,
the country needs
the country waits,
the country tortures,
the country will be,
they execute the country,
and weíd be there in the afternoons
waiting for some mourner
to tell him
donít be an idiot
think of the country.


in the door to the street.
Not in vain
have I been so cruel,
not in vain
do I wish
each afternoon
for death to be simple and clean
like a shot of warm anise
or a slap whose echo is lost in the mountain.


The Phone Call

When I asked him why he hadnít called
he explained heíd been buried alive
and they hadnít given him a phone.
On his thin chicken lips,
there is no,
or there was no,
daring at all.
Everything was strictly legal.
Is it that you donít even believe in God?
If it wasnít easy
you wouldnít try.
I went to the balcony
and looked toward the park,
irritating brotherhood of squealing kids
and retarded birds.
I heard the remote control switching channels,
on mute.
At my back I felt,
his desire to put on his pants
and leave.
I went to the kitchen to peel potatoes.


One Weekday II

Squeezing his eyelids to avoid the midday light,
was never a problem for Modigliani.
The truth is always waiting for us
at the bottom of a bottle,
he warned,
long before he stretched his womenís necks.
Itís degrading to eat in bed,
but I do it,
at the risk of losing el flacoís company.
The bed unmade,
the book by Lévi-Strauss and Didier,
the chewable paper napkin,
how many years hanging around here?
On my stomach to watch TV,
facing the ceiling to be loved,
elbow folded for sleep.
Life doesnít form part of the great laws of the universe:
Iím a solitary chance
in this space of rituals and penumbra.
Now I escape to the perspective of those climbing onto a bus
or pissing behind a tree.
A chimpanzee eating a turkey and mustard sandwich.
Itís April and the myopic eyes blink
in successive delicious messages:
pomo, party, babes, gays, borderline.
Living cells that unknot me and tell my memory.
I touch my little thing, tidy from so much iodized soap,
and thoroughly washed again.
Island smelling of iodine.
Little thing disposed to the entrance of fungus, herpes, bacteria,
bugs, foams, plastics, coppers and rubbers.
Come here, kid.
El flaco caresses me with a paternal hand:
donít reprimand your little thing,
itís much more useful than art.
The boy witfh the violin starts up again over my ceiling.
I can see him, chubby cheeks, buck teeth,
smelling of swollen polyps and tonsils,
an enormous callus on his chin.
And there he goes with the scales,
Fuck, screams the Spaniard on the fifth floor.
My mother would say to me,
tu me fais grincer les dents,
nothing to do with the
tu me tue, tu me fais du bien,
from Hiroshima mon amour.
Anyways, long before,
Shakespeare had determined
that every man ends up killing what he loves.
The folds of the sheets hurt my back
just like the horoscope announced this morning.
Tidy and full refrigerator.
The beer can with its frosted edges
and the ham wrapped in aluminum foil.
A matter of values:
Walkman, gastronomy, Zen, cool, humanism,
no one will be defrauded by manipulative practices.
I choose the beer
and run to bed again.
I ask myself if the rights of man are truly
an ideology.
Fernando, the only alcoholic bartender whoís not retired,
speaks in rhymes:
the night is dark
and I donít have my lark.
As I see it, heís one of the few who live
human rights as morals.
I cup the pillow,
suck my finger,
and wait for el flaco to arrive.
Thereís days like that.


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