así y todo

el invierno ya se volvió primavera

pero igual nieva

meant to be

it will always be you

half of what I say

is meaningless

but I say it

just to reach you

julia

think twice

Go ahead: say what you're thinking. The garden

is not the real world. Machines

are the real world. Say frankly what any fool

could read in your face: it makes sense

to avoid us, to resist

nostalgia. It is

not modern enough, the sound the wind makes

stirring a meadow of daisies: the mind

cannot shine following it. And the mind wants to shine, plainly, as

machines shine, and not

grow deep as, for example, roots. It is very touching,

all the same, to see you cautiously

approaching the meadow's border in early morning,

when no one could possibly

be watching you. The longer you stand at the edge,

the more nervous you seem. No one wants to hear

impressions of the natural world: you will be

laughed at again; scorn will be piled on you.

As for what you're actually

hearing this morning: think twice

before you tell anyone what was said in this field

and by whom.

daisies, louise glück

para variar

fargo

sit in for your rights

'we would like to be served here'

the other way about

STARTING FROM SAN FRANCISCO

Here I go again
crossing the country in coach trains
(back to my old
lone wandering)
All night Eastward... Upward
over the Great Divide and on
into Utah
over Great Salt Plain
and onward, rocking,
the white dawn burst
across mesas,
table-lands,
all flat, all laid away.
Great glary sun-
wood bridge over water...
Later in still light, we still reel onward-
Onward?
Back and forth, across the Continent,
bang bang
by any wheel or horse,
any rail,
by car
by buggy
by stagecoach,
walking,
riding,
hooves pounding the Great Plains,
caravans into the night. Forever.
Into Wyoming.
All that day and night, rocking through it,
snow steppes and plains of November,
roads lost in it -or never existent-
back in the beginning again, no People yet,
no ruts Westward yer
under the snow...
Still more huge spaces we bowl through,
still untouched dark land-
Indomitable.
Horizons of mesas
like plains of Spain high up
in Don Quixote country-
sharp eroded towers of bluffs
like windmills tilted,
"los molinos" of earth, abandoned-
Great long rectangular stone islands
sticking up on far plains, like forts
or immense light cargo ships
high on plains of water,
becalmed and rudderless,
props thrashing wheat,
stranded forever,

no one on those bridges...

Later again, much later,

one small halfass town,

followed by one telephone wire

and one single iron road

hung to the tracks as by magnets

attached to a single endless fence,

past solitary pumping stations,

each with a tank, a car, a small house, a dog,

no people anywhere-

All hiding?

White man gone home?

Must be a cowboy someplace...
Birds flap from fences, trestles,
caw and caw their nothingness.
Stone church sticks up
quote Out of Nowhere unquote
This must be Interzone
between Heaven and Brooklyn.
Do they have a Classified Section
as in phonebooks
in the back of the Bibles here?
Otherwise they'd never find Anything.
Try Instant Zen...
Still later again,
sunset and starnge clouds like udders
rayed with light from below-
some God's hand sticks through,
black trees stand out.
The world is a winter farm-
Cradle we rocked out of-
prairie schooners into Pullmans-
their bright saloons sheeted in oblivion-
Wagon-lits - bedwagon over the prairies,
bodies nested in them,
hurtled through night,
inscrutable...
Onward still... or Backward...
huge snow fields still, on and on,
still no one,
Indians all gone to Florida
or Cuba!
Train hoots at something
in the nowhere we still rock through,
Dingding crossroads flicker by,
Mining towns, once roaring,
now shrunk to the railhead,
streetlights stoned with loneliness
or lit with leftover sun
they drank too much of during the day...
And at long last
this world shrunk
to one lone brakeman´s face
stuck out of darkness-
long white forehead
like bleached skull of cow-
huge black sad eyes-
high.peaked cloth cap, grey-striped-
swings his railroad lantern high, close up,
as our window whizzes by-
his figure splashed upon it,
slanted, muezzin-like,
very grave, very tall,
strange skeleton-
Who stole America?

Myself I saw in the window reflected.

LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI

para la versión en español, visite esta misma página prontamente.

no es una postal

es la posta

here it comes

let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

thanks, but no, thanks

Unthanksgiving Day in Alcatraz and the West Coast 2009
Alcatraz is not an Island

National Day of Mourning en Massachusetts  2009
1970: First one to be celebrated

rindiéndole cuentas a quién

con tus dólares me voy a ver a devendra y quedo como estos chicos, and there's nothing you can do about it... je, je, je.

lección 7: ¿qué sueles comer?

actividad G: completa las oraciones 1 a 7 con las frases a-h. más de una combinación es posible.

1-Si la banana está fresca, ____
2-Si la banana está pasada, ____
3-Si la batata está fresca, ____
4-Si la batata está muy pasada, ____
5-Si el pepino está listo para comer, ____
6-Si la leche está pasada, ____
7-Si el pepino está pasado, ____

a. está marrón.
b. está amarillo/a
c. está olorosa/o.
d. está blando/a.
e. está duro/a
f. está firme pero no duro/a.
g. tiene mal olor.
h. está verde.
i. está roja/o.

las cosas que me hacen decir...

otro ladrón

Past and future fall away.

There is only the rose and blue

Shimmer of the illimitable

Sea surface.

No place.
No time.

éste me está robando el corazón.

más del otoño

The Summer had died peacefully in its sleep, and Autumn, as soft-spoken executrix, was locking life up safely until Spring came to claim it.

este señor, aquí

abrazamos el cambio de estación

the lonesome traveler

Strictly speaking, there is no me,

because all is emptiness.

I am empty, I am non-existent.

All is bliss.

bichos raros

no es casualidad: vivo en el medio de un bosque de árboles de hojas verdes, amarillas, naranjas y rojas que ahora mismo mientras escribo se están quedando pelados. está empezando a hacer frío, por eso, yo creo, vienen todos a refugiarse aquí adentro a la noche. grillos, arañas, abejas y mis preferidas, las vaquitas de san antonio. se acuestan en mi cama, caminan por la almohada y por el teclado de la computadora, trepan libros y montañas de ropa; yo los dejo vivir tranquilos, voy pisando con cuidado la alfombra que a veces los hace invisibles. a veces, les abro una ventana o la puerta de atrás cuando los veo que se estrellan contra el vidrio o la pared en busca de libertad, y aún cuando la luz afuera, el aire fresco y el olor del verde los llama, terminan quedándose adentro, tentados por la seguridad de un techo y un poco de calor. no se dan cuenta, porque son insectos, esto está claro, que a cambio pierden sus vidas: indefectiblemente, cada mañana me despierto para encontrar sus cadáveres sobre el escritorio y la mesa de luz. a veces los dejo ahí algunos días, como haciendo una especie de duelo, y otros días como hoy, los junto con un papel de diario, les dedico un segundo de silencio y los tiro a la basura. ¿qué más podría hacer por ellos?

y me dijiste... algo de la energía, transformá la mala en buena, me dijiste... sí. sí, señor.

me das miedo, lucía

international love

receta

ingredientes y condimentos para contrarrestar la primera nevada y el advenimiento de un largo y crudo invierno:

• *botas de lana grises (un par)
• *café latte por la mañana con mi compañera italiana (uno por día)
• *mail del profesor de fotografía que dice que disfruta de mi presencia en su clase (uno basta y sobra)
• *entradas para recitales (tres)
• *prácticas de yoga (tres por semana)
• *clases de español al aire libre sentados en el pasto (siempre que el tiempo lo permita)
• *pasajes para disfrutar de las vacaciones en el caribe (ida y vuelta)
• *concerning the spiritual in art, de wassily kandinsky
• *mensajes de amor que llegan desde lejos (cuantos más, mejor)
• *norteamericanos que toman mate y sueñan con empanadas (van tres y el número crece)
• *lápices y marcadores para pintar los colores del otoño (mientras dure)

*botellas de ron y whisky (las que hagan falta)