Bueno, puedes cortarlo, pero por lo general se da una pérdida significativa de sangre, sin mencionar el daño al tejido muscular, y que la cicatriz es un poco difícil de explicar a tus amigos... Y puedes usar un láser para quemarlo, pero cuesta miles de dólares y a menudo queda todavía un fantasma del tatuaje en tu piel... o puedes cubrirlo con otro tatuaje si puedes encontrar un artista tatuador con la suficiente habilidad....
Love is a lottery ticket.
What are the odds?
But you play anyway.
Life is a drawer
full of old lottery tickets
that didn’t pan out,
each one a springtime of hope
in its day.
And there’s nothing like hope, is there?
Besides, it’s only a dollar… or two
and what’s a dollar for a springtime of hope?
So you go down to the corner store every day
or the corner bar every night
People are like geological layers:
The first thing you see is appearance,
maybe green grass,
a well-manicured lawn
or wild amber waves of grain
or an overgrown thicket of sharp thorns
or a vast and vacant desert,
but it’s always interesting…
first appearances are always interesting,
but peel back that thin layer of appearance
and you find the crust of people,
the hard dull heavy thick personalities
“In a bookstore in Nicaragua to buy souvenirs for friends back in the states, I stumbled across copies of Céline’s Journey to the End of the Night, and Death on the Installment Plan.” Thus starts off the first line of the poem Souvenirs in my book I Sing the Body Poetic. And this illustrates the big difference between ebooks and traditional books – you can’t stumble across a used ebook in an old bookstore. (Maybe someday that might be possible, but it’s not possible n
All those whom I’ve known
are dying now,
dropping like flies,
evaporating like disappearing ink,
leaving nothing behind.
It’s a strange thing to live long
while everyone who gave your life
context
disappears.
Where is the context, then?
If no one remembers that you won
the Pulitzer Prize,
the home run prize,
the hotdog eating prize,
then did you in fact ever win them?
Many years ago, while working as an editor/proofreader for a large publishing house, I learned two very useful editing tricks: (1) to catch spelling errors, read the text backwards, and (2) to revise, read the text out loud.
We don’t feel the moon
but it pulls the tides and the menstrual blood.
We feel the heat of the sun
but not its weight that spins us round and round.
The physicist says there’s no gravity without mass
yet now my flesh aches for you
and you’re not here.
We take gravity for granted.
We take everything for granted.
She texted me this evening to ask how I was doing.
I texted back "fine", told her about my day
and asked how her day was
and never heard back from her.
That's the problem with checklists, you know.
If it says "text Roberto, see how he's doing"
and you do that
then you can cross it off your list and forget it.
Next time I'll just type, "K. U?"
When I was a child, I read a story in Ripley’s Believe it or Not that Descartes could only write if he held a cold dinner plate to the back of his head. So, the story goes, servants would spend all day transporting cold dinner plates from the chilly basement up to Descartes’ writing room when he was writing. I don’t know if the story is true or not, but it does illustrate the lengths that writers will go in order to be in ‘the writing zone” – to be creative.
One could say that there are two “zones” in writing: an inner and an outer zone. The inner zone is where the words come from, that well where we draw the water of life. It’s a space that is totally personal, solipsistic, dreamlike, irrational, undependable, moody, creative, volatile, immoral, temperamental, and unpredictable.