Friday, January 23, 2004


I don’t
Want to be
Like a car
In rush hour

Thursday, January 22, 2004


La mujer gritaba
Como si hubiera
Matado a su hijo

Escribir es un acto paternalista afirma Bruno Ruiz. Esto me recuerda a Bukowski cuando dijo lo siguiente:

“Un verdadero escritor debe tener hijos… Los poetas que viven solo para su trabajo, para el arte, y no tienen hijos, están separados del mundo de la realidad, el mundo del amor, del trabajo, del asesinato y la dificultad”


Me desperté
Al escuchar
La riña.

Wednesday, January 21, 2004


El mundo de la amistad
Es tan frágil
Como una balsa cubana

Hay que navegarlo
Con mareas de cautela
Los tiburones
Están escondidos
En las sonrisas

La muerte del aprecio
Es como la amputación
De un miembro

Como un ataque al corazón
Tiene sabor
A guerra

Monday, January 19, 2004


I heard the horses around me. One of the horsemen would ask in a loud voice

“What’s your name?”

But I would keep my eyes closed. I did not want to deal with the question. I was laying on the middle of the street and my motorcycle was destroyed. My legs felt like they were broken and I was somewhat cold. The night was illuminated by the lights on the rescue vehicles.

“What’s your name?” The strong voice barked again.

I decided to keep my eyes shout because I knew there shouldn’t be any horses around me, just the fire engine and the ambulance, and a few cops. The guys with the horses were definitely out place, and I definitely didn’t want to see them, their leader was insistent and kind of rude. I did not feel like talking to them. I felt like ignoring them. My best bet was to keep my eyes close till I was in the ambulance. And that’s precisely what I did.

“What happened to the guys on horses” I asked the paramedic that was sitting beside me in the ambulance.

“There were no horses” he said as he was fastening the belt on the stretcher.

“You didn’t see the horses around me?”

“No, there were no horses; I was with you all the time. I saw no horses. Try to relax we’ll be in the hospital in no time”


Today was the first time (since I returned to Mexico from a 15 year hiatus) I sat down, well laid down, to watch TV. Looking and wanting something to divert my mind from the seriousness of the day by using this electric device that produces visions. So I laid down on a borrowed bed, turned on the Japanese TV set, and stared at the myriad of images that danced electronically.

In better times I used to shot at televisions deep in the woods of the Northwest. Let me explain, I befriended a group of futuristic hunters that would shot at a screen if it showed big game in it. Now I am here, channel surfing this Mexican cable puzzle.

I decided to try it again, because a local celebrity wrote a comment on one of my poems. It reads something like this: “Television also has good things?” This comment changed my outlook on the controversial device. I tried; the good Lord knows that I did my best to get reacquainted with the tele. It did not worked out. It wouldn’t be that bad if it wasn’t for all the commercials. Those things are macabre.


We can see
The faces of people
In the rays
Of the sun.

Sunday, January 18, 2004


Efectivamente, Bruno identifica muy bien la coraza protectora. Esa que se va desarrollando en el alma de los niños y los convierte en adultos. En hombres y mujeres sofisticados antes los asaltos de la existencia. Ante las injusticias de la realidad. Los escritores están en las primeras líneas de fuego. Ellos son los que profetizan los presagios más desagradables, ellos son los que buscan la manera de enseñarnos a navegar estas tormentas de la conciencia.