jueves, 24 de junio de 2010

City’s carols

City’s carols

A pretty isolated tree
Told me a story
Its thorns biting like teeth
About being too trustful with people
You haven’t even read the CV

A very populated hill
Too far from the sea
Advised me against to talk with people
Even if they don’t bear malice
Against the rest of the human race

Somebody walking a stairs labyrinth
One foggy night
Clouds had vanished the city
Told me that it is really a mistake
Even to say good evening

To someone searching for place to dream
Under the stars and the moon
But outside any ceiling
The contrary of
What is used by common people

And taught me that dry roofs
Are very scarce luxury
When rain is washing
With detailed scrupulosity
The things that makes cities

So please sing with me
This carol of the cities:
Never talk to strangers, if you don’t need to
Be careful with them, as if they would bite you
And ASAP find a roof, to refuge you

But if you fail at it
Don’t worry friend
Maybe we can meet
Under the stars and the moon
Without ceilings and outside roofs

I’m sure you will recognize me
Because my smile invites to talk
But my gun says my words
Those are sharp as a knife
That loves to slice and to slash

sábado, 19 de junio de 2010

I love victor bueno

I love victor bueno

I’ve asked myself, quite a lot of times: ¿Why do I write?

Because after seven books, I still haven’t earned a dime, and even can´t afford to print one.

The only thing I´ve obtained, is to be phone treated as homosexual, by an anonymous subnormal, who kept phoning me one month, between late night and early morning, to tell me how bad I do write, what I was trying to write, and why I can´t.

So I’ll use an easy start: ¿Why am I writing this? 

Good, I think it’s a good beginning.

Well that’s easy: Because I love victor bueno, that marvelous poet and writer, who writes things, normal people can´t even imagine, much less freezing them for history on paper.

¿So what’s next?

¿It wouldn’t be great if he could be millionaire?

¿If he spends the rest of his life traveling only on first class?

¿Have he made evil to someone?

¿Do you see my point?

That guy is great, he deserves just the best, everybody must to love him, and buy his books, shirts and gifts.

Ok, after all being clear, ¿What’s next?

Good, next step is to fill his bank accounts enough for him to live without worries about anything and let him write, write and write :-) 

VABM June 19, 2010

viernes, 18 de junio de 2010

Pass-Words at amazon y createspace.com

2006-2008 blogposts are in a book called Pass-Words
You can buy or load it on your kindle at:

Flushing Time

This year's blogposts are in a book called Flushing Time
the createspace preview is at:

and you can also buy it at amazon or load it at your kindle at

domingo, 6 de junio de 2010

A rainy Sunday’s morning

A rainy Sunday’s morning

Time’s coordinates
Are also June and Sunday
For this windy & rainy morning

Sky is dirty white
Heavy water clouds

Alarming studies about the jungle
And the ozone’s layer
Fill up the news

Negotiations continue between the leaders:
The people who represent us before
The leaders of the other ones

Nobody really cares about the other ones
Because everybody knows

They’re really silly, sad & bad

Everybody secretly knows that always something fails
And the talks will be suspended
And when they will be resumed

More powerful negotiators
Will find a nicer place to represent us:
The poor normal ones

So there is really nothing to worry about
Because another cycle of talks
Will be started again immediately, someday

I’m concerned about the paper’s price
Because if it continues rising
I’ll join the ignorant masses

By now I just want to beg God
To please protect me from the dictates
Of my wise representative ones

And from the work
Of the poor normal people
Who try to put them in practice

While taking care of their places
In the “society’s pyramid”
Gladly accomplishing the worst crimes, when they can

Just for the prize of being considered
As partisans and representatives of the powerful ones
By the others below them in the “society’s stairs”

Blindly following orders with a mental laziness
Quite similar to a conviction
I’ve never had about nothing

Except about this:
Truth will prevail and Justice too
But a lot of good ones will never know
When they finally won

Everything, with quite few immaterial exceptions

Follows the less effort’s path
Three of them are: love, truth and justice

And this:
Everybody hates
Sunday’s morning rains

VABM Sunday, June 06, 2010

viernes, 4 de junio de 2010

Black urban bird

Black urban bird

Fortunately or unfortunately
My friend
The jungle wasn’t made
For none of the both

Neither for us is the anesthesia 
Of the hospitals’ clean & easy release
Because for us was made the dirty death
Of sidewalks and streets

Even the pretext of being
Just another step
In the food chain
Isn’t ours, my friend

Because except for some strayed kitties
And repulsive insects
Our meat, nerves and bones
Aren’t appreciated by nobody

Black is the ink in our quills
But if someone pay attention
Will see the rainbow in them
Without necessity of any rain

Anyway, the city
With its multilevel reality
And its intermittent sidewalks
Is our home

But we don’t waste tears on our fate
Because we need all of them
To protect our eyes from the smog
And to sing heartedly, unheard songs

Below the city’s 
Red smoke dyed sunsets
Inside its streets’ labyrinth 
Too far from the jungle’s natural scheme

VABM June 3, 2010


miércoles, 2 de junio de 2010

A small bridge across a branch of a small lake

A small bridge across a branch of a small lake

I was happy at ten
Fishing below a small bridge
Across a branch of a small lake
What now seems to me

Quite few of a small fish
But I was not interested in the gain
Because just to fish
Was my real interest

To cast and wait
To catch
To fail and to retry
And again to wait

To keep and to release my prey
To take my booty from the lake
To obtain my fruit of these days:
To learn to always make another intent

Because at ten
Or at ten times that
Nothing is as usual as
To fail and to retry again

VABM June 1, 2010

My dead heart

My dead heart

Where is my heart?
Where it did go?
Because what I hear inside
Is just a blood’s pump

What happened to that boy?
That used to think
His heart belonged to you
And the moon to the both

Where is my heart?
I just don’t know
May be it is as dead as the moon
And I’m using a blood’s pump

VABM June 2, 2010