the face is always a lonely thing
we can cheat with our hands
carrying anything: freesias
books
a bag with potatoes
but the face
Like the moon
It's a lonely thing
we can pretend carrying bricks on our back
or in the soul
that at this point in life I already suspect that they are the same thing
A back only bends when its soul already weighs,
tomorrow I go around the sun again as cool people say
I call it birthday because I got fed up with the good vibes,
but he was saying something else, he was saying
for example
that before I liked dogs a lot and cats little
Today the taste is tied because I no longer throw myself to the ground
let me drool over the mutt as a child,
He said that one can be lost in the crowds
as in that story by Poe and be, even, those crowds
be all at once
be all at the same time
walk in an angry or suave mood like a guy who
until the shot at the end comes out gracefully,
I'm reading swedish literature
and I'm bothered here, right here, where my
Man, that place hurts like a bad intestine.
because sometimes, you see, it doesn't matter if everyone dies
evil of many consolation of people who settle for a
flat existence like the roadrunner when it falls off the cliff, my daughters are always poking my eyes
They take the trash off me, they make me smell less ugly,
but I started, and I don't know why, talking about the face
it's always a lonely thing
a palm tree stuck prepo in the sidewalk of a so-and-so
that by sending the part gives the landscape the exoticism of
I miss him. and I say:
love is a patio where one can lie down to sleep without
fear of being eaten by a spider. nothing more. and nothing less, of course.
to finish, a beginning: the face, like the mirror, like the moon,
like the tomb, like laughter when reading Don Quixote,
it's a lonely thing
hands in his finger paraphernalia can leave us in doubt.
not the face, less the eyes.
the eyes of a man are the flickering lights
also lonely
in a deserted street once the comparsa passed
and the early morning wind pushes
the empty knob of snow
towards the storm drains. but beware
that this
It's nothing, it's a poem written like that, to which you grew up,
because the only thing I came to say is that
than the face
It's an unmistakably lonely thing.