FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2001
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT
INDIO GRIS Nº 70
still unable to enter Indio, the matter must have been serious.
having diffilcuties with Indio and the Poetry page. I hope that nothing very
serious is happening to your pages.
miss you, Indio. What happened? I hope that this week our problems will be
I couldn't find the Indio, everything became unreasonable and I thought
atrocities like, for example, that I want to live close to you.
by wars and viruses, I have just taken one from this machine and hope that you
can liberate the Indio from his suffering, I'll meet you again.
the world fall but don't allow the Indio to be delayed. I'm looking forward to
contamination was terrible. I couldn't stand the fact that the Indio wasn't
there and then imagining what might be happening (viruses and wars) I decided
to continue and today, by chance, it is spring.
the visitor 12,635 waiting for the Indio 69. I think that the delay is due to
the poet's birthday, that this one will bring news of the celebration. I
remain here, waiting for you while spring arrives.
just arrived home and you weren't there either. What a desperation to look for
you and not knowing why today, exactly today, is your birthday. Happy
birthday, Master! It's unbearable that the 69 wouldn't be there.
hope, Indio, that nothing will stop you, that…it was brutal not to find you.
We looked for you during all the hours of the afternoon and I don't know what
FROM THE EDITOR
spite of the bombs, in spite of the viruses, to fail precisely in the 69th,
speaks more about my efforts to be able to bear going on writing poetry and,
at the same time, to grow older, than the damages that the war and the viruses
could have produced on us.
loves gone astray, found, lost, left aside, held against their wills, today I
want to confess myself: to war, we will oppose peace and to the viruses, the
anti-viruses. To love, rest; to death, the poem and to poetry we will oppose
love you, though I know it's not worth much.
everything is globalising, we should also globalise ourselves and that means
that I've been seriously thinking in founding the Grey Indians Club.
2: Be confident, the Western Christian man (more or less) has transformed the
Infinite Justice, which is something belonging to gods, in Endurable Freedom,
which is something impossible for man.
what endures is useful, I love you once more.
a bit disappointed: the famous virtuality is full of reality. Virus, windows,
patches, spurious ideologies, cheap criminals, noble sons-of-bitches,
good-hearted, that do evil just for the sake of it, almost without benefit,
just to fuck the citizen. A sort of terrorism that cannot yet be considered as
such, which I hope is fought before it's impossible to fight against it.
same way bombs have all the citizens of the world afraid of dying at any
moment and for any cause, nor even noble, nor even literary; the computing
viruses, if a solution is not quickly found, if the people responsible for
this isn't hastily and severely punished, in only five years we'll spend more
money and we'll lose more lives with computing viruses than with terrorism.
writing what I'm writing full of fear, for me, for the poets who should be
publishing in the poetry site, for the readers who wait for the Indio to
survive the crisis, for the future of the world, today while writing I'm
afraid for the future of the world. For our small independence, for our small
means of communication. And to be able to get out of this situation that
damages me so badly, I'll say that the computing viruses are as invisible as
terrorists, we should take the same precautions as we take with terrorists,
with those who are capable of scheming and transmitting a computing virus. And
I know that thinking this way can put me in confrontation with the owner of
the viruses, but that wasn't my intention, my intention was to ask for mercy,
some respect for poetry, some trace of discrimination.
love, my love, nor with you, nor with her, You can tell your lovers that the
Indio is a singer without an owner. Someone who sings not only because he
knows and can, but because humanity needs him. And nobody, though it may be a
powerful man, a powerful country, can take possession of the whole humanity.
And I want to say it with utmost humbleness, not even one God could take
possession of the whole humanity.
love, my love, nor with you, nor with her. I beg you to tell your lovers not
to kill the singer, because without poetry there won't be God for man, because
without poetry no man will know freedom.
a city man,
roars, moans of the beast,
started to put on jewels,
was a man
screams coming out in a gush,
don't know yet, we don't know:
live, darling, it was necessary
live, it was necessary
the roars of death
continue the next time.
where all the music
and silencing not to die.
wanted to fly like birds do, to growl like beats do.
wanted to be God
got me soaked to the skin when I opposed to her
spite of you,
waves, unexpected cataclysms,
time in which everything is the same.
a man is what he is.
the catastrophe I write verses
talk to my children about the movement of the stars: