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things cuerpo_watanabe Peru Lima

I still have to intervene in this strange body whose function is the poetic delight. Follow this further and convincing eye seeing that the mission is fluidized in foreign words that soak volunteers, eager to become one through the emotion. And there was Watanabe, this time not Cisneros was not Vallejo, Joseph is a poet who shakes the inner body with his verses.

opened the window, sensitive, powerful, that frames the world may seem far as possible. Shivering and felt the body aches. Was the transformation, was out of the shell and exude from one side to another without any time or dimension.

And how far away I saw you. In how far will I have left. And I went back and forth while you only managed to watch the ground. I smile, I sing and fly, and the moment that my body crumbles, is suspended air and is transported around the universe you just open one eye and yawn.

Joseph you share name with Toru Watanabe, the endearing character of Murakami in Tokyo blues, did you shudder to the marrow, it was as if a magic hand is introduced into my mouth surprised even the guts, and give me back to see me on the back.

Animal Winter (José Watanabe)


Again it's time to go to the mountain
to find a cave to hibernate. I will not lie

: the mountain is not mother, caves are like eggs
gaps where
pick my flesh and forgetting. Again
see on the slopes of solid mineral streaks
petrified as nerves, perhaps
in ancient times were traveled by chills
living creature.
Today, after millions of years, the mountain
is timeless and does not know how our life

or how it ends.

There is, beautiful and innocent in the fog, and I come in perfect indifference

ball and delivered me to the idea of \u200b\u200bbeing of another substance.

I came for the umpteenth time to pretend my resurrection.

stone In this world no one is happy with my awakening. I will be myself and I'll play

and if my body is still the soft part of the mountain know

am not yet the mountain.

(for body Stuff , 1999)

The guardian of the ice (José Watanabe)

And the breeze
agree with the ice cream truck and I damaged

running after the birds had fled from the fire
of the harvest.
also agreed the sun.
In this situation how to refuse a favor Level:
the ice cream man asked me take care of their ephemeral ice. Oh

fleeting look under the sun ...

The ice began to melt under my shadow
so desperate
as useless.

diluted slender beings
primary drew only a moment
firmly harping

quartz crystal and then were pure forms as mountain

that devastates the planet.

can not love how fast it leaks. Ama
fast, I said the sun.
And so I learned, in his ardent and evil kingdom,
to comply with life:
I am the keeper of the ice.

The first operation of your insomnia
is a game of time: you checked

and confirm that neither your hands or your feet
have come off like the tails of lizards.
Your whole body is tied into your skin


Eye (José Watanabe)

The other operation of your insomnia
will not be accessed. eye is inside

sailing into your flesh. It is the eye travels

you and see each of your organs
and saved the secret.

The eye is born you
to snoop your slow disaster, nothing else
know you, know whether you live in this city
or another, do not know the paper where you write
for their wickedness
and might not know wickedness. He only knows
your inside.

soon end tonight with its star compassionate
in the window nor

know today if the eye travels through your ends
is the eye of God to see
amazed every organ
tirelessly and still doing his
or indifferent but the meticulous eye of nowhere.

(for body Stuff , 1999)

And speaking of windows, I think of a body that frames a petiolate and unfolds into my world like a sunrise. To listen click here .

Can I Use A 56 Instead Of 54 Ink Cartridge?

worth a

ago fifteen soles I crossed the bridge of sighs to arrive at the land of the worshipers of the sea. The reason was a trip to the book fair in Lima. The excitement was living an episode of unruly life that I expressed the slightest unconscious. The cause of fate I invested as a representative of Magoeditores for submission of Anthology of poetry and narrative Chile where there are also selected some texts that I wrote. There, before hundreds of people on a Sunday closing and noise, and with more recklessness that gentleman, my attack perpetrated blue. Before and in the most sacred silence greeted my predecessors Rojas, Edwards, Lemebel, Fuguet, Zambra, and even the very Vargas Llosa, who sat there in a similar chair, had set the pulse magic of writing, facing the Lima avid and amazing. Read, read, and metaleí extracts from the anthology, including my writing, I finished my beloved-and-"die with Vallejo addict." The roar began to stress increasing my chest was the love, respect and attention of the people so close but unknown. Current Lima, unintentional lovers of poetry, without threats of pride and historical atavism, generously shared with me the verse levitation love, fun and terrible of national feathers.

Strange, but tasty dish was playing this new role. Podium many times I've shared so much talked about worldly things, sure of myself, as the path to a more proactive and visceral he may have, but this time it was emerging and unknown poet, the bard abroad received laurels and not simple mediate paraphernalia and medal, just for the sake of being ... if can be categorized as a fact. I went because I felt the bard whose voice sang out colors for the first time in Chile and that despite the story clearly testified dolorígeno only joy and pleasure.

So I finished my speech, with this poem given birth to the eaves of the Peruvian Vallejo died in Paris on Thursday and rain.

addict will die with Vallejo

For an addict like me,

Vallejo satisfies my deprivation ...

always silent,

suicide because words

hide and drown

in the liquid I am.

Once, not long ago,

I read in a loud vo z, happy, being introduced,

but as an abject and ironic design,

only served to kill the voice ...

there will lie buried with the poet,

a day later and every week.

All died Friday to resurrect every Monday,

growing less strongly,

all of it on the run, wasted in vain,

absorbed by the cancer heart, eager

unforgiving

outgrowth has me hungry and pulverized.

Caesar die every time I read,

every time I feel it cretins fists

and her childish eyes, obsequious,

scattered on my body, livid,

lying on the suelo, con solo el corazón tumefacto,

y sin que yo haga nada, solo morir y morir…

…cada vez que llueve y no estoy en casa,

cada vez que estoy en casa y no hay nadie,

cada vez que dormido ya no hay tiempo

porque todo se quedó en ese instante,

cuando me dejaste entrar solo un poco

para probarte y hacerme un adicto más.

I want to thank the gentle and mysterious Lariza Casana, press and camera image of the book of Peru, who gave me these and other photos. She left in suspense offerings is the desert that separates us from the possibilities. Was also in this corner of the destination is a subtle and powerful soul, Luisa Fernanda Lindo, aesthetic errant witness the inner world, gave me his fascinating book "false" and a lovely conversation.

also thank and welcome the efforts of the Chilean Jimena Pizarro Lila Christian books and Beltran, cultural attache; to Coronado Germain Peisa editor for his chivalry and generosity, and the whole team of Fair organization with whom we share a glass of wine closure at the stand of Chile, who was just heading round a day. Finally, a salute to the Peruvian poets Roberto Salazar, Federico Mendo Mendo and Kevin for their love and warm reception to my work.

Before posting this reflected what could say Salieri, or Fito here (again) ... heard, listened and metaescuché and I realized that Lima was a gift because no matter if you love me ... to listen Click here