Fútbol — Treinta y seis años, una vida. Treinta y seis años desde la última vez que Argentina ganó la Copa Mundial. Treinta y seis años, una eternidad. Un puente que se cruza en un segundo. Como el abrazo de un ser querido al que volvemos a encontrar. En algún aeropuerto, en alguna terminal. Treinta y seis años…

A Poem — How do I, a love song to self do write? When I’m not Whitman, and I despise myself so much, when I linger among penumbra, afraid to touch the promised light Do I see it Me: a blind man? I have traveled to the confines of silence, afraid to run away…

A Song — I was running my laps Around Academy Park When I found myself Between Jupiter and Mars It was then when I looked At the sky among the stars I saw the lights of airplanes Mars was also in the sky I thought then about you I also thought about your…

On killing and being — Seventy-three miles an hour, cruise control. An empty black highway, nothing more. I’m finally by myself on a New Mexican mountain road when I see you in the grayish lighting of the beams of the car that gives you the appearance of a dream or a bad-quality night photograph, Innocence…

Poesía No ha querido ella, mi alegría, ella ser tu desdicha. Si yo sé de alegrías, y sé que no han de volver, si yo no he querido, mi reina, romperte el corazón otra vez. Yo tan solo he querido, el olor de otras flores oler, si yo sé de alegrías, y sé…

A Poem — Come here, Friend! Sit by the fire, My fire, Our fire. And tell me that story of old, Your story, My story, Of the Peasant who nothing had, And one morning at dawn, A beautiful bird he heard sing, By the orchard belonging to the King. And its feathers he…

On Freedom — The problem with incarceration is that you become acquainted with the walls. The routines mold you to their demands, and you get used to the rewards, no matter how small they are. You think of the guards as your friends, even when they are holding you hostage to your past. …