Poetry is a mystery, says Montale. For both the as does the beholder. To taste the colors ... It all depends from how everyone sees it from the plane where it is mounted. Where the startled some, others will sleep like lemons bored, to another will cause vomiting and ones, the most distant, give them a feeling that fills their belly so much emotion ... and ...
"experiment is an experiment went wrong, "William Burrough.
One thing is what poetry can make you think it is, and anything else you create it. From this point of poetry is a cat.
can see that I'm concerned, no? This morning it happened.
I been thinking all these things I describe as elaborate a detailed study of those exhibiting at conventions and clubs to exchange ideas and impressions in general. I was at the stop because I went to catch the bus to work. And the others who were with me 2 or three types or gals heard a metal decontrol, they say. I forgot and lost in my musings and thoughts of Ionic and Baroque architecture by its level of detail, just felt a chill as if the summer is going through a door that opens the blue sky when advised that winter is coming with their long legs pale and trembling because of eating cold wind seemed to issues beyond the grave, until I awoke on a stretcher and the siren uuu doing and make Sirens practicing universal language, to understand that someone dripping blood or is about to become as pale as a corpse riders. And that led me to the nearest hospital. I touched the door of thick glass with my finger, I side with the face of what I'm limited to seeing only from the waist down to the people who spend the majority of white, you know those shoes painted white on super-duper polished floor again and again, man! I mean mopping. And I can see a white stockings legs, legs that now remind me of my aunt who always wanted to bite, that's weird, I say I am. She died more than a year and come to remember this amazing way and unfortunately ... I realize I'm in the emergency room. I lay back and feel torn. Your bleeding is a disaster has escaped the pain of mouth through the window, so much pain. I keep seeing the side. Things are half under my visual field. I wish you were around to see you half way down as I said that my field of vision. (Last two words are a delightful image that makes me want to use only up to ask me to pass the salt, would use an eternity). Again I've seen the chrome wheeled stretchers wide and something like a doctor (as analyzed by the end of the thick coat of white ironed impeccable, flawless unforgettably when I see who gets to pocket a rumo of vials, swabs, vials of penicillin, all so stealthily that I feel it is stealing because he was going, does not want to see their gestures but my field of vision can see, I can grasp that everything is in hiding. I feel that it robs your pharmacy or have a checkpoint on the road where salt sell retail Andrews, sleeping pills and other health tools. Will do very well in the business, I suspect. I could never see his face. Even so salonsón question me in a police station like a key witness. They have had compassion, to see me as I am, and for hours viewing photographs of thieves and murderers. In these folders that appear albums. I am tired of sitting in this wooden bench listening to military salutes and the smell of ironed fabric gives me a hunch that hospitals and police stations are family or premiums.
A. Cruz Morales
