Farewell to the Führer

Farewell to the Führer, farewell to all Führers who have been or who will be. Farewell to all Führers true or false, good night, I say, good night, With an intimate reactionary sadness Farewell to the Führer who gobbled Black Forest Cake while his tanks fed upon the roads of Europe. Farewell to all Führers …

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Prayer to a Farm Worker

Rise up and look at the mountain, from where the wind, the sun, the water arrive. Thou, who determines the course of rivers, thou who scatters the flight of your soul. Rise up. Look at your hands. Join hands with your brothers, together in blood we go. Now is the time that can be tomorrow. …

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To See Him Again

And never, never again? Not on nights packed with a few stars, or in mornings’ first slender sun or afternoons sacrificed to afternoons? Or at the edge of a pale road that surrounds the farm fields, or a rim of a trembling fountain, whitened by a moon? Or beneath the forest’s lush poplars where, yelling …

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“Copper from my land / black ceramics / from Pomaire / and Oaxaca / Pieces of the day / picked up / on passing / through the roads” |
by Renato Martinez

Film Viewed on Coney Island

Like a dragonfly shimmering within a jar, such is the woman held by your gaze. From her open hands there blossoms three flames. Petals that turn into thorns, thorns that turn into amethysts. At this hour, the violet of gasoline is the most sensible perfume; fire encircles the drawings of her body: mandorla. Slowly, the …

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The Chair

On the chair a favorite book a dirty shirt  a glass full of noise and thirst  or a beach where dolphins of smoke  are meditating  Its wood has rested my bones  insubstantial air international politics love  I’m sick of traveling In this room which the Queen of England has never visited  in this room which …

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by Roberto Bolaño: When Lisa told me she had made love / with another, in the eternal / telephone booth of life / in the market in Tepeyac, I thought the world / ended.

The Heavenly Poets 

by Pablo Neruda: What have you done / you intellectualists? Rilkistas? / you fucked up mystifiers, fake witches?

The Tablets 

by Nicanor Parra: I dreamed I was in a desert I was sick of myself