too often fall into the error of bask in that pleasant sense that white condemn us, ancestrally, to relegate us as the center of a world. beings poised on the thin line that separates the real biological, slaves, pressed, judged, specified, and the endemic sense of a world "other." for some a feeling that the weight of a sigh, a conviction for another restlessness and insecurity, without justification or possible solution.
a postulate of experimental psychology, says, "is nothing but the hallucination that the slip (slow or progressive) recorded from a reality to an interpretation from the senses. "
perceptions to which we are subject require us to decide that in most cases we are unable to address. on the one hand right programmatic vision of a future in which we can hardly make sense, on the other pressing conviction that comes from the human existence. Join or die.
personally think all too often to Burroughs and the New Flesh: "There is no true reality Real or "the priest said," there is the Real Men without dreams, the rest is bad policy "and I say, somehow, I like to think that we would agree.
hesitates joy
Under the shade of a yellow ribbon
hidden insects silver
rejected by the lights
vibrate at low breathing lizards hidden
up the sun.
lag behind only those who had already taken
holding a hat in the air.
The birds do not fly never
with the belly to the sky.
Strait, not surrendered
dome with a convenient comfort will not be known
the same road, I
not the same man.
The love of my passion saddest
not change your decisions or your pain
or lie down on this mat of silk
like a slut sleepless
or the grass grow from my meat
without roots in essence inhuman.
so that the flavors will not be speaking with his mouth
the electric blue, the dazzling yellow.
unrolled like a fabric
from the east comes another sweet forgiveness.
Just a kiss whispered on the skin, yet.
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