Fishing with My Father
I could fish for hours,
Lose myself in a marsh
Carried by giant carp,
A dragonfly hook its shadow on my eye
And guide me back to my surprised self.
Fishing in silence beside my father,
I would glance up at him
Catching the fishes that got away,
Years that were lost in him,
A sadness inseparable from living.
I caught once, his fish reflection
Sinking below the surface.
Interview with Manuel Negrete
What is the most beautiful goal?
A goal with friends; a goal that is itself a goal;
A goal that is a beginning, and a goal that ends.
What is the most perfect fulcrum?
The human body where it casts a shadow.
When will the earth shift on its axis?
When the moon becomes a meteorite
And imagination lifts the heart.
Did the Azteca fly up from its foundation?
All of Mexico emerged from the ground.
Is Quetzalcoatl a soccer god?
He plays with the morning star.
What do you do with your time?
I live in the blinding moment.
In The Beauty Of A Lower Heaven
Autumn in Paris is like summer in a lower heaven.
Sycamores and chestnuts paint the air,
Pencil-thin branches sketch the city like Utrillo,
The Seine sets leaves in moon-glass.
We caught the metro at Bir-Hakeim
Near Vel’ d’Hiv, the Nazi detention center.
Cyclists went flying into fire and ash
In the beauty of a lower heaven.
Something grotesque in the accordion
Like a fascist playing Mozart.
Something hypnotic in the sound,
The bellowing of giving birth to terror.
In the beauty of a lower heaven
All the people are lovelier, tranquil,
Even at rush hour music tames
The writhing beast of megalopolis.
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