These were all written on a typewriter in a little attic apartment in Berkeley, California. It was a year of confusion and sporadic clarity; a year of many disagreements with Mr. Monday and the mirror, but I had many friends, good friends. We sat in circles in this attic apartment, in this. For some Metamorphosis to have mercy. For our mirrors to wither,. For our hands to loose. Of egocentrical dirty fingernails,.

With the Luxury of a Flophouse. Friday, September 10, 2010. Where my steps leave no trace,. A city whose nights are birds. Picking on the breadcrumbs of memory. I walk by trees anointed. With smells heirs of amoniac and rain,. By obese nurses in pastel gowns. Vomited by glass doors of emergency rooms,. Suspended as minuscule tropical jungles. Who have replaced their dead soul-mates. With little curly-haired dogs,. With fruits of traffic lights,.

La mesa más redonda del Café de Nicanor. En la punta de la lengua de Nebrija. Monday, May 3, 2010. Con cada golpe de astucia. Con cada golpe de suerte. Por cada paso un error. Canicas, abejas, panteras, linces,. Enormes fábricas, columpios, alas,. Noches, agua, precipicios, ventanas. 191;En qué quirófano arbitrario vivimos dormidos? Sobre el lomo de un tigre,. Sobre un globo de agua,.