Federico Garcia Lorca

To see you naked is to recall the Earth.

I was lucky enough to see with my own eyes the recent stock-market crash, where they lost several million dollars, a rabble of dead money that went sliding off into the sea.

Besides black art, there is only automation and mechanization.

As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.

With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.

The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.

Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.