no.14 / bonus (bonus) / 09 Track Leymen Pérez his Book of Heraclitus / beings and things 
Leymen pérez
(massacres, 1976)
of the Book of Heraclitus / beings and things
in a poem by José Kozer
left put his hand on a poem by José Kozer.
The low lamplight oil and moisture was not enough
to think about the people and things that the country abandoned.
spots had their hands and eyes to collect extinct animals. stains were some sounds, some seams.
Cut your hands , said the poem open his mouth to things
surviving in writing. Perfection is reached
by combining the light with the dark, is like the ethnic print
who walks with us during the tearing of the bone.
Cut your hands, that the poem also bleeding from the right side.
● ● ●
plantings
The country planted in the yard will not grow
the country before Mayakovsky shot
the country after Mayakovsky shot
Sitting in the middle of Liberty Park
in the middle of myself
I pass the shadows of the other
see my shadow pass
energy and vibration that will not return
is not gunpowder
in the air
the scar
The country planted in the yard will not grow
The land is very fertile is bitter
corta
larga
como el ruido del ferrocarril
que corta la vena la raíz de la ideología
oscura o clara según el horizonte
●●●
(X)
have unpaved streets smell of Russia. Russia's bloody all over, kneeling body, filling the lungs of dust (Mayakovsky, the big crunch, lying on the red earth after the fall, get up and jump): noise of asphalt, part of uncertainty, I I? in any direction you look at a hardening of the soul, a counter that simmers like a lament, called Cuba.
unpaved streets are odorless to Russia, which is a tree, an oak, a worm that eats the last leaves and inhale the smoke of the firing, the thud of faith.
● ● ●
(XXVI)
if he had lived in Russia
during the days when Dostoyevsky wrote The player
have enough salt to preserve the nature of beings,
opposition forces equal
forming a tension, an expression.
I've always been a bad player
now I have to do forced labor of others
-as- exiles
and harvest in the depth of things same
on the surface.
● ● ●
(XLVI)
You have to put in all, my son, a boundary, a brick wall,
a barbed wire fence, a mountain of vivid images;
must be put into a poem precise lines as Dürer's drawings, although some men put out the sun in Cuba, although the air is dead and we have no where to go;
the loved traveling, my son, and I always travel with beings from a spiritual state and another, between schools of thought to returning to the internal border of man
put a brick , a blood drive and let the transience of the material to grow like a weed, like a lizard gothic and chaotic, which is hidden in shallow limits of the soul;
must put in all, my son, the limits of the soul and the limits of things about the soul that is not written or describe with border brought from a site with little pain;
although the air is dead and the country enters your life as a blunt needle, do not forget, my son, put live images on beings and things are still bleeding.
And FIRE? 
