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Alberto E. Mazzocchi, I do not know why they should die

I have to travel as all who travel late at night leaving nothing here

soon begin the real winter
the circle of moonlight gradually disappears
a petrel proud faces the wind
nobody recognizes me
as a messenger and all
fund and at the bottom of my soul
is only the simple reminder of what I experienced
I have to travel as the travel to be here forever
or to return with another
face further away are the stars
and I know that here there will be nothing
have to return to live with me cold


dream with me and I have put the same clothes the same clothes
inveterate
who accompanied me and although I know I'm not alone
and although I know that I will continue to live
I'll go back to wait with my hands together and my smile
usual poor

however many terrible things I did not return inside
all know there's something
me that although I would not have taken so far will be mine someday

even stay where I was always
and can not fetch
like the old go for a walk
to what is infinitely just
and there as I recall when I was younger every day I learn

something profound that only I can interpret

I have to travel the sky becoming more widespread rise

trees and animals sleep
men repeat the intensity of the cold
someone shows a deep affection maybe all the little
I've done for myself is something majestic

hope will be open everywhere
if I understood

was only because I was too weird.

Alberto E. Mazzocchi (The Rods, 1937 - Córdoba, 1960), do not know why should die, Crying Mute, 2007.

Wielikosielek Thanks to Ivan for the book.

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Rául Artola, Landscape

The painting is a gray house
logs, old
solid
in the woods.
seems comfortable as possible

an Eden to make life free and volatile

of imagination,
planting and harvest, love and food
.
Suddenly
box opens before us, devouring us

and within
find mold, vermin, due

walls and a pungent
a wet logs. Live

people there who are wary

and sleep with one eye open and hand

the ax.

Raúl Artola (Las Flores, 1947), Keyboards, El suri stubborn, 2010

The Morning Before A Brazillian Wax

Macky Carlini, The shadow of the curve

photo

messy on the surface of

the sheet, just a shadow

irregular, unruly, an ally of the light

and objects. soft drawing

hills, I love it up before

those hips lewd and crude

are his pretentious home.

that life has more dark map

outlines the heart pumping,

rushed, blood that is not yours.

Corbalán Macky (Cutral Co, 1963), Like a thousand flowers, Hippolyta Editions, 2007.

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CiudadJuarez

Serigraph to 4 colo res.
4 color Screenprint. 60x90


Done in the studio of Edgar.

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Amelia Biagioni, Umberto Saba

Photo

I resist,
on the streets of the hanged,

to obey the order to be lukewarm and cautious
of clinging to security
settling into the habit of wearing a watch
and serenity, adventure
string

word, deadly pale, and eyes with limits.

I resist,
between the teeth of failure to obey the law
getting tired,
to resign,
to sit in the world fofo
languid dying of a sword, waiting
marasmus.

I resist, plagued by whistles
atrocious

to fate to shut myself up and lose the key or throw
the well.


With all of the bone up, I am the enormous fear, and I advance
,
without cause,
singing between absent.

Amelia Biagioni (Gálvez, Santa Fe, 1916 - Buenos Aires, 2000), Complete Poetry , Adriana Hidalgo editor, 2009.

Artiste Scott Kay Nexus Helzberg

Manifesto, The Goat

Photo

I've talked to a goat.
was alone in the meadow, was tied. Harta
grass, washed by rain
, bleating.

That was bleating like fraternal
my pain. And I answered,
first joke, then it is eternal pain,
has one voice and does not vary.
And I heard this voice
moan in a lonely goat. In a goat

Semitic face
regret any pain I heard,
any other life.

Umberto Saba (Trieste, 1883 - Gorizia, 1957), Version Jesús López Pacheco.

Santkovsky Thanks to Jorge for his valuable contribution.

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Stella Maris Vence, Dodge Street your steps ...

My grandmother,

Ten Juana Bermudez

elusive street your steps

the facade of the old house but

back to your profile

colony

braided hair

the hollow of your arms

back to the warm milk in the afternoon

and want to sleep and wake up your eyes

nothing is lost

when the memory is not enough

never understood that farewell

alien face you put

so many people and nobody

and you and I

without tears

Stella Maris Vence (Buenos Aires, 1954), Reversing return, Ediciones Del Dock, 2006.

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Joseph Di Marco, understand that no ...

Understanding that none of the above

has seen his father, corroded

by cancer, consumed

from toenails to the eyebrows

while the amount begonias in the courtyard.

to a pain is nothing

a fortune of

cosmos or a groove in the torpor of beauty.

For the other,

a matter of mechanical

and resistant materials.

None

was forced

(by circumstances)

to use language with urgency and

fit to explain, always late,

that should be less ethereal and more friendly.

Joseph Di Marco (Rio Cuarto, Córdoba, 1966), A previous music, Recovecos Editions, 2010.

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Susan Deer Cloud, Car Thief Reineri

My mom told me to stay away from you,

the guy who steals cars. In the village

all called you "car thief."

Half a century later we still do not know

your name. Your name, yes, -

Mohawk name that uses a known thief.

But for me, car thief, always going to be

your name only. You'll be that guy

twelve, fourteen, sixteen burning

gums down the street from the school, while I

you looked behind the white pine used

climb. "Hey, Sexy Susy," you said laughing

leaning over one of the windows down,

"Come on, baby, Come for a ride with me!"

I I stared at him, clinging to the pine,

perhaps of how longed

embrace you for you, but what did I know?

silky pine thorns pricked me

the face while trying not to smile when

were throwing kisses me crazy, roaring

between my house parents

brick school and crap.

car thief, do you suspect

I thought your beautiful skin -

was the color of the clay of Catskill and your black hair was

as the mane of wild horses that wanted me?

Your hair flowing over your shoulders challenging

before that became fashionable white boys

long hair! My mom had warned me,

so I never knew the depths

of your flesh, your smell, your touch, but the rough

bark, sap, sun-hot needles

that your theft tattooed on my virgin skin.

car thief, one day left

stop in our narrow street.

My mom said you locked

in a reformatory for juvenile delinquents.

I escaped to the street, I thought

she lied. Expected to hear "Sexy Susy!"

the chrome shine of your tongue,

ready for a ride in your red convertible,

with the top down, our hair tangled

a wake without tears in the wind.

Car Stealer

My mother told me to stay away from you,/ the boy who stole cars./ In our town/ everyone called you Car Stealer./ Half century later I still don't know/ your first name.  Last name, yes ~/ Mohawk name a well known chief holds./ But for me, Car Stealer, it will always be/ your name alone.  It will be that boy/ of twelve, fourteen, sixteen burning/ rubber down School Street where I/watched from white pine I used to / climb.  “Hey, Sexy Susie,” you laughed/ through one of many rolled down windows,/ “come on, Babe, go for a ride with me!”/ I gazed down, hugging the pine/ the way maybe you ached for me/ to embrace you, but what did I know?/ The silky pine needles teased/ my face trying not to smile when / you blew me crazy kisses, roared/ between my parents' house/ and brick school we both hated. / Car Stealer, did you suspect/ I thought you beautiful ~ skin/ color of Catskill clay, hair black/ as manes of wild horses I cried for?/ Hair streaming past defiant shoulders/ before the white boys made long hair/ a fashion statement!  My mother/ warned me, so I never learned the deeps/ of your flesh, scent, touch except rough/ bark, sap, sun-heated needles tattooing/ your thefts into my virgin skin./ Car Stealer, one day you stopped/ speeding down our narrow street./ My mother claimed they locked you/ in a place for juvenile delinquents./ I stole out to the road, believing/ she lied, waiting to hear “Sexy Susie”/ sparkling like chrome off your tongue, / ready to hitch a ride in a red convertible, / top down, our entangled hair/ tearless trails in the wind.

Susan Deer Cloud ( 1950, Livingston Manor, New York), Car Stealer, FootHills Publishing , 2010.  

Versión: Griselda García ©

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Rural Environment
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Country House Velez Rubio

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Mary, Women and electricity

Foto 

Se cortó la luz.

I made some questions.

Today we might all be dead

but the light saved us:

repeated a chapter of the novel

Cancano saw incredible deals

spent images of what they call a good male

and gave clues for a practical bag embroidery

us thank

electricity a day

god

know what conclusions would come

dark thinking

do with food.

Mary Reineri (Rio Cuarto, Córdoba, 1980), Poems literal, Cartographies Editions, 2008.

Does This Scorpio Like Me

Pablo Neruda, tree

last night to extinguish the light
I slept the
roots and my eyes were tangled

leaves until, later, with the shadow
I dropped a branch
sleep and I went trunk
the cold night
glass as transparent iguana.
Then I fell asleep.
I closed my eyes and leaves.


Pablo Neruda (Parral, 1904 - Santiago de Chile, 1973), World's End , Santiago, 1969.

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Lines

Lines Originally uploaded by
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Leonor Garcia Hernando, offer a back without heart before ...

Photo

(...)

offer a heartless back ahead.
If the murderer is, my heart, do not give shade.
If I sleep, I'll be a target size white sheets.
No goalkeeper threw his dart loving my bed

be alone with his back against the fallen hair
light in the wood.
will ask the murderer to hold me.

(...) Leonor Garcia Hernando (Tucumán, 1955-2001) in women's clothes Ebony , Mascaro poetry collection, Buenos Aires, 1987.

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Diego Formia, Fish Eye

desire to live in a house cartapesta / paper on paper
a wooden house / toy / with a sky blue floor

gun after the boy / break after / the sky where you step.

Diego Formia (La Palestina, Córdoba, 1970), Fish Eye , Ediciones Cartography, 2010

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Luchas_La La Cumbia of Tattoo

on silver paper

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black & red ink

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of luchas_La Nelson Cumbia Cumbia

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First four serigraphs that I'm doing now in Guadalajara, Mexico. Cumbia shine the struggles , a song about Mexican wrestling, to which I have fond sung. Each figure represents one of the four keys that are mentioned and is inspired by the constant bombardment of kitsch with which one encounters in this city.

First of four silkscreen prints I'm working on at the moment here in Guadalajara, Mexico. They ILLUSTRATE the "Cumbia of the Struggle" , a song about Mexican wrestling, Which I've Become remove fond of. Each print Represents one of the four Catches They mention in the song and is inspired by the overdone kitchy atmosfere of this city.

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Jorge Santkovsky,

His tragedy was not accepting

rules time.

Someone cared

and still lives.

You know what will never be

you just need to enjoy your

halfway.

is more than expected

and less

of what he wanted.

Jorge Santkovsky (Bahía Blanca, 1957) Revelations , cuttlefish bones, 2010.