“Hello Mouse, pretty thing,” you would say to me, and I felt disgusted. Rodents of any kind have always disgusted me. Once as a child running to the school gate I saw a dead rat and fell down fainting from shock and frozen fear.
(Who are you? Photos are crap. What they give they take away).
You tell me.
Who can forget Ali Macgraw, Steve McQueen is part of my life. Y you are that, the divine heron. You were always the only patron. When you no longer love me and you are no longer with me, there is zandunga. The Covadonga is a strawberry bar where nothing ever happens and the distance is a very poor neighborhood.
In a museum I found you on a stone, in an Egyptian drawing. You traced in the dance, with your body, the perfection of the circle.
Arabic architecture. A dance is performed. Colored walls. Subtle exchanges of straight curves, then wild sex.
The oars, one after the other, enter and shorten the distance, a slow, organic rhythm, each second with greater precision, specific in its own way, no symbols: water, wood, you.
Sickle hands, hooks in the air accompanying the scratched body crawling in the sky, she does tai chi, it looks like an ideogram.
He has a degree in Latin American Literature (UIA) and a Master's degree in Ethnomusicology (UNAM). He was part of the board of the magazine “El poeta y su trabajo” directed by the Argentine poet Hugo Gola. He founded and directed the magazine “Mula Blanca”.