INDIO GRIS No. 33 Individual Magazine of garbage collection

INDIVIDUAL MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 33. YEAR 2001- JANUARY, THURSDAY 11
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2001

WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
SPANISH, FRENCH, ENGLISH, GERMAN, ARABIAN, PORTUGUESE, ITALIAN, CATALAN

INDIO GRIS, IS A PRODUCT
OF A FUSION
THE BRIGTHENESS OF THE GREY
AND
THE JARAMA INDIAN
THE FUSION WITH MORE FUTURE OF THE
XXI CENTURY

I must pull myself together, the wretch said sadly, no person can influence other people's lives.

But I loved her, I desired her with faith. That was my only mistake. It will never happen again, never.

It amuses me a lot being in the year 2001. It amuses me even more to have ambitioned with all my will to reach this year, as if something important were meant for me. As if the current man could reach some place where to stay because peace and intelligence reigns in it. But I must confess that beyond those little philosophic attempts I wanted to reach the year 2001 with all my heart. When in 1995 I had the strength to call a poetry magazine, which would reach up to 125,001 monthly copies of free distribution, LAS 2001 NOCHES (The 2001 Nights), I thought in the year 2001 and I had, once more, the desire to reach it because I would have something to offer to the new century. I always thought about that: when the year 2001 arrives everything will be joy, everything will be celebration.

In 1961, forty years ago, I was publishing my first poetry book, Pequeña Historia (Small Story).

In 1971, thirty years ago, I was writing and signing together with other friends the First Manifesto of Cero Group.

In 1981, twenty years ago, the Foundation Act of Cero Group Psychoanalysis School was written.

It wasn't Paris, it was Buenos Aires that saw me born,
that's why girl, ragazza, chavalita movement doesn't frighten me.

From the tango, I'm the breeze that moves when feet are dragged.
The silver waist that twists to the rhythm
The man who died the next morning to see her dance.
The bored mistress that riding on a billiard cue
dreams that she can live on her own, love in solitude.

And the thirsty drunkard who drinks without end,
recalling his mother, that infernal girlfriend.
and he gets drunk and thinks that everything is the same for him
and his hands shake from such impunity
and tears his guts and wishes to forget
and he forgets but not the name of the one who will kill him.

Of the tango I'm the ecumenical dogs,
the dogs that witness the passional murder
that like fool or crazy dogs bark at the moon,
when the beloved of the portico lies on the sidewalk.

A dagger of fear stabbed her throat.
A dagger of jealousy condemned her to death,
a man in love with another man,
a dagger of horror that without loving her, killed her.

And then, I'm of the tango, the soul mate,
who doesn't arrive at twelve there where you wait for him,
who tells you the truth when truth hurts,
who never shares with you, the winner.*

I'm from the tango the clown of the Twelfth Night,
the one who killed his beloved to see her smile,
with a man in her arms, with open legs,
mad lover of the dagger, he killed her for no reason.

And I'm also from the tango, the worker
who thinking in his children, robs a piece of bread.
I'm from the tango the night locked behind bars,
that the street-lamp of the corner doesn't want to illuminate.

Then I was born to freedom and chained
and so they had me during five centuries,
alive and chained and they gave me something to eat,
some tear to cry for everything lost.

I ate that shit that was given to me and cried those tears
and I realised that my freedom was only a link long.
A noise separated me from another noise, a chain
linked me to another chain and to men like me.

Hear the noise of broken chains!* and nothing was heard.
Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!* and nobody moved.
Love and peace, we were told and war burst out.

Slaves, exiles, mutilated persons, dead, missing persons,
That's how we got the names of pain and rage.
That way, along the only road to survival, we were poets.

And this is useful for all women, for all men, whichever position they may occupy in love and for all the times of the formation of the individual.

And She, though a man takes her, won't stop loving her father and that that no human can overcome is the basis of the existence of the Law.

And She, I insist, though a man takes her, will only stop loving her father in the time when the sanction becomes punishment.

She, though a man takes her, competes with her mother to see who is the mad one. He, even taken by a woman, educates himself because he accepts rapidly, that the mad one is the mother.

I am, I feel myself tied to an incalculable serpent that shall never die but crawls.

I have to be able to define several matters and the only thing I realise is that I'm not interested in sanctioning no one. Sometimes not even I completely believe that there will be bread for everyone, even though I fight for this all my life.

Little can be expected from a soldier who fights for many armies at the same time, he will mistake the language, the watchword, the arms and will end up taking his friends for his enemies and will want to kill them.

Today we'll make love like the blast furnaces that bend steel without losing its shine.

I never end up knowing if what I do is correct or incorrect, but there are things which I cannot stop doing, even though sometimes I intend to.

To kiss reality every morning. Whatever the reality might be, making it mine in that kiss and one morning I even kissed death and, however I cannot stop kissing reality.

I simply describe my deplorable condition: Guitar player's nails, without a guitar.

Long, pink at the base by the oxygen that reaches fast and enough the most distant parts of my soul and dirty in the zenith because of love to earth, to the trees where the guitar was pulled out from.

To be able to continue carrying the mark of her childhood, which in her case was to have been the best of her school in first grade she got together with the poor and non-intelligent lazybones and made herself loved by them. Afterwards she lamented the whole time that people surrounding her were good for nothing.

Today, I was afraid, the wretch said tranquilly, I realise that I can even kill her. And, afterwards, I'll be surely found guilty.

No and no, although the pains continue. Something isn't articulating, something is breaking.

It's impressive, the wretch said, how I ruined myself in order to be loved by others and I got nothing.

Now, for sure, they will want from me to love them a little and I won't be able to any longer.

To reorganise the senses, when one is condemned to dying, only means: to live a little better and that is the only possible organisation.

To earn money, a lot of money only to publish our writings is not bad, it's not bad at all and in time it might also be good business for many partners.

Tomorrow it will be seven years since Pablo was killed. The murderer is already free, and Pablo is still dead.

There are things from justice which I cannot understand. There are things from God which I cannot explain.

A book written by Miguel Oscar Menassa
To get along with your partner in the Holiday Season
and during some of the working days

“This novel is a monument to desire, not to its satisfaction and desire doesn’t fit in moulds norms”

Leopoldo de Luis

“ Menassa transforms eroticism into a real encyclopaedia of sexual relations”.

Juan-Jacobo Bajarlía