"I am a dog poet," said the medium-sized mongrel Pasternak and take him to pee. Me talking a bit 'the Canese replied: - "Dogs do not have hands to write, how can you be a poet?" Pasternak wags his tail lifted his leg and drew a large Aleph in the urine.
While telling this story over the phone in my farm so cool and minimal Democratic style, Pasternak was staring at me from the couch while my girlfriend did not believe a word of my story, but she liked to imagine that was true. It 's a sign of civilization not to shoot fatal shots on the avenue of Love and I had a girlfriend because I knew that civil and Pasternak wanted us well.
loved my innocence and I loved the innocence of Pasternak, we have in common the fact that we were not at all the hard, when he met with larger dogs would lie down and showed her belly in an act of submission, I sensed a problem when I changed quickly sidewalk.
Aleph squared, cubed, something huge, much bigger than you can imagine, perhaps as big as a copula well done when it comes to its climax, something that does not imagine a set of logical thought . Pasternak and I at the park in the rain forever while we sniff the tracks of the world.
When you get on a jumbo jet to go across the land you must remember two things; melatonin and change the time on your watch, everything else remains the same international airports from one end of the world, pay Visa or Mastercard and you need not even worry about the currency difference. I Pasternak and we would live well in check in area lying on our luggage to await a trip for a lifetime watching the world go by. We are contemplative and lazy but he is lucky to be a dog, a dog poet.
Everyone knows that the sky is just, just like a human in agony in its joint action and expected to die, so I think when Pasternak and after the usual early morning awakening, about five o'clock in the morning, take him to the park and look at the start day. When the cave stars of the night gives way to hope the beginning, as if it were new. Pasternak and I hope every day that the opening words for something better, but then every sunrise is only the word "dawn" and the story remains the same, a mentally unstable unemployed, the poet and his dog sometimes the candy fruit for me and a ham bone for him if the butcher kept it aside.
For us everything is liquid, liquid stain and dirty sponges and we are in the midst of a funeral speech predictable, the only important thing is to have a shelter when the summer ends and it goes without saying. When I was homeless
Pasternak was not yet born, I was the one with captain seats where, if the head and the reality are quite aggressive not a big problem for the cold and the food that is good. There is no need to dream. The only important thing is bothering to change the sidewalk when it senses the danger and do not have too much baggage. As a wrap floated on the world swollen with liquid thoughts visionary enough not to take the tedious banality of a beach holiday.
Why is the sea that are dead in exchange for a box of cookies. I'm not dead for the daily ration of oxygen, but for a pack of Great Turquoise. I took it, as if capturing a wild animal that needs food for the winter. The blue of the sky softened have not looked at it, diligently called the garbage collectors of souls and took me to a prefabricated without windows. If Pasternak was with me maybe I would have defended. But Pasternak was not yet born, a dog was inconceivable.
When I was homeless I had great ideas, it is subverting the daily, live from the blind in a crystal ball to guess for having the strength to go forward every day without knowing the next station, it is necessary that the signs are written the book to be magical a flower in the wind in the middle of the world is a lost treasure in the precincts of employees, procurement of medical directors and nurses.
Today my second life, I imagine the sigh of my purpose in this prefab. I have no memory, but I know I left spring flowers near Genoa, and that once knew my name spelling, you co co psi and decreed the end of freedom. No more stations later, no longer alive, no more life, closed the door. The water at the taps replaced remedied by poison, Genoa was no more, no more wind or makeshift markets by immigrants in the alleyways of a thousand smells of spices and mixed stench of garbage.
Nothing at all, only soup that I could not eat, had become too heavy even the spoon and could not keep his eyes open, my humble life, poisoned by the war of the ordinary. Then I died, died as a peace-building exercise crazy, that I cried in camouflage my head and magnified map as infinite, without which I could fight, I was paralyzed, killed by poison, was thirty years.
Now I have thirty-seven, I have a dog house and there is a woman who loves me, I survive and I have not anything new: a desert of grains cataloged.
