tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59227092641505642522024-03-12T18:31:41.536-06:00Drinks, Drugs and DreamsThis is a blog where I post my fiction, poems, stories and things like that. There is some stuff that deals with some current events and my opinions. As you can guess most of the stuff is product of Drinks, Drugs and DreamsDrinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-59739185827749352062014-11-29T21:39:00.002-06:002014-11-29T22:32:42.345-06:00Just for one day...Featuring lyrics from Heroes by David Bowie.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was a dream in the late 90s</div>
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From a sleepless night or a hang over</div>
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I heard David Bowie sing in the middle of that haze</div>
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I wish that morning it was cold in an overcast way</div>
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Something told me to not make plans</div>
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Something told me my place was there</div>
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To Ride out the hangover</div>
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It was time to wake up</div>
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...</div>
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As I tried to shake the hangover</div>
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As I tried to get up</div>
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As I tried to figure out </div>
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What was going on...</div>
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"You, you can be mean,</div>
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"And I, I'll drink all the time,</div>
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"Cause we're lovers</div>
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"And that is a fact,</div>
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"Yes we're lovers, and that is that!"</div>
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...</div>
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then it was hot...</div>
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behind the explosions </div>
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apart from gun fire,</div>
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among the flames,</div>
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I knew,</div>
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we could beat them,</div>
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just for one day...</div>
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...</div>
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everything went deaf,</div>
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everything went mute</div>
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and I saw the sun set behind the sea</div>
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It was a dream in mid battle</div>
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on a summer's night</div>
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I could feel the warm breeze</div>
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It was only for one day...</div>
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...</div>
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then it was the heat</div>
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the heat of battle,</div>
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I was so tired </div>
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after that dream...</div>
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I was bleeding after that dream...</div>
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I was dying after that dream...</div>
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...</div>
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they put me on the gurney </div>
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to carry me out of battle...</div>
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I just stared to the sullen smoke sky</div>
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I could smell the burnt and forgotten</div>
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My eyes desperate to find the sun</div>
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in the middle of smoke</div>
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...</div>
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I whispered to myself</div>
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to my angels </div>
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to those who I love,</div>
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to who I'm in love with,</div>
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...</div>
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"I wish you could swim</div>
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"like dolphins can swim</div>
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"We can beat them,</div>
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"just for one day"</div>
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...</div>
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now I sleep, </div>
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now I dream,</div>
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and that song still plays in my head,</div>
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Was Bowie looking at me </div>
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as I went through battle?</div>
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Was Bowie dreaming </div>
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Or was I?</div>
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...</div>
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I'm in exile now,</div>
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and still I'm convinced</div>
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that just for one day,</div>
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I could be beat them, </div>
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for one day,</div>
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In exile, and old</div>
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war over for me,</div>
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not sure of what I did,</div>
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did I get my angel wings,</div>
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did I deserve a metal,</div>
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did I do enough,</div>
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"o nothing will drive them away...</div>
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"we could be heroes, </div>
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I whisper...</div>
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"Just for one day..."</div>
Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-33413055717770954602014-06-12T17:17:00.000-06:002014-07-27T19:06:21.190-06:00Para Yaiko <em>(Para Yaiko)</em><br />
<em></em><br />
I.<br />
La quisiera tener tan cerca, que sus latidos estarian en mi corazon, <br />
su cara pegada a la mia, <br />
su sueño me duerme...<br />
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II.<br />
Te miro de lejos sin saber que sientes, <br />
tu silencio me llena de lagrimas por ser tan hermoso aunque duela, <br />
estas en la misma sala pero sos un universo perdido, <br />
solo veo tus estrellas brillar en mi noche sin sueño,<br />
y me pregunto si hace siglos se apago tu brillo <br />
o quizas nunca fue para mi...</div>
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III.<br />
Mis sentimientos por ti, un tesoro secreto, <br />
que a escondidas lo miro y lo escribo, <br />
letras que excusan mi mirada silenciosa hacía tu espalda, <br />
a escondidas sonrío pensando en un beso calido de tus labios, </div>
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lento, <br />
ya que lo esperado tanto, </div>
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suave, <br />
ya que me duele ...</div>
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IV.<br />
Abrazo la pared que me separa de ti, <br />
fría y rigida, <br />
carcel de mis sentimientos, <br />
aún siento el calor tuyo detras del cemento, <br />
indiferencia de invierno...los veranos cortos valen tanto </div>
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en tus ojos hermosos, <br />
en tu cara bella...</div>
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no hay otras estaciones, <br />
así que en invierno abrazo la pared, <br />
rigida y fría y sueño con tu calidez, <br />
con tu sonrisa.</div>
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V.<br />
En medio de sueños a escondidas te atrape en una esquina. <br />
Tu pecho expuesto por tu camisa blanca; <br />
sudas en la noche, <br />
por ansiedad, por lujuría que temes. <br />
Tus labios resaltan en la luna con tus ojos haciendo intentos de escapar...tus manos se levantan, <br />
y con deseos escondidos recibes mis labios en la oscuridad de este sueño caluroso, <br />
tus labios moldeados con los mios...espero tu cuerpo con ansía.</div>
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VI.<br />
Huella has dejado en mi ser, tanto que tu ausencia no existe, no para mi, <br />
presente siempre estas, <br />
invento nuevas direcciones para voltear y no verte. <br />
Verte es sentirte, <br />
sentirte es rendirme <br />
ya posees mi alma y mis deseos mas puros. <br />
Me posees con una mirada, <br />
me posees como una criatura sin razon, <br />
perdida en tus ojos, <br />
tu cautiverio...<br />
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VII.<br />
Eres un secreto para mi,<br />
Secreto que no se lo que es,<br />
Secreto que guardo sin saber si me lo reveleras.<br />
Tu sonrisa hace nuevo mi corazón, <br />
Me muero por solo enganchar mis ojos con tus ojos por un solo segundo. <br />
Como en mis sueños te escondes yo te busco; <br />
como tu escondite eres un secreto.</div>
Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-56850557938766836912013-05-03T08:55:00.002-06:002013-05-03T08:55:07.188-06:00No soy yo amor<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/xIjzvTObzgA" width="420"></iframe>Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-6744225330591124392013-05-02T16:36:00.003-06:002013-05-02T19:09:56.036-06:00Fumando pensando en poemas que describen mi vida...<strong>En Derrota</strong> 2 de Mayo<br />
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<strong>Humillado </strong> 7:51 pm<br />
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<strong>Preso</strong> Jueves<br />
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...Ah, mis veinticinco años tirados a la calle.<br />
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Veinticinco años podridos que a nadie le sirvieron de nada...<br />
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Pobrecito poeta que era yo,... (Pedro Geoffroy Rivas)<br />
<br />Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-72072336719563718662013-02-21T01:20:00.000-06:002013-02-21T01:49:31.339-06:00Speach from the Fourth International Tribunal to Restore JusticeThis was a speach I had the pleasure to deliver after presenting three cases with my team mates at an International Tribubal held last year in El Salvador. I posted earlier the spanish version which I never got to translate till now that I have a little more time. This is intended to open the eyes of those in Latin America and in particular El Salvador, and to say that while there are people who have yet to recieve justice, there can really be no lasting peace. When people are unsatisfied, when they are not heard, they take to changing things by any means necesary. The truth even if it comes late, is important. I dont expect people to understand our disatisfaction if you havnt lost everything to government brutality. And when the question comes up asking..."That is the past, let it go"...well I could ask these people to forget september 11th...I doubt they are willing to forget that. Or what if it was your mother, father, brother, sister or child killed by your government...I would think you would want satisfaction. I worked with many victims who lost everything, to the extreme right wing of El Salvador, I could never ask them to forget their murdered child, spouse or any those wounds still bleed for them and will continue till they die.<br />
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The Truth as it relates to el salvador and the law of amnisty<br />
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Every time the anniversary of the murder of Monsignor Romero or the anniversary of the murder of the Jesuit priest comes up on the calendar, or when these topics are putt o some scrutiny, the media of the country and in particular the right wing of the country, starting with the ARENA political party who is followed by the political party of the military dictators, the PCN the sound bite is the same over and over again, “that is something that has been left in the past.” That we should not open old wounds, that “the salvadoran people have moved on and no one cares about those cases”.<br />
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■Before we go on lets look at something. (Project the photo of a banner that says “the National Guard Lives”) This photo was taken on February fourth of 2012, marking the 100 years of the National Guard being founded, an event organized by the Academy of Military History of El Salvador.<br />
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■Apparently this is not a thing of the past, out of sight and out of mind, gone and forgotten. The wound made at the massacre of La Cayetana still bleeds thirty eight years later. The perpetrators still see themselves as heroes and there are those who actually see them as heroes. Their major goal is for the people not to speak of this evil that we have exposed in this tribunal. They depend on oblivion. They depend on the people forgetting and making themselves vulnerable again.<br />
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■(Referring to the photo “the national guard lives”) But as you see, a picture is worth a thousand words, doesn’t it? They are proud of the wounds they inflicted on the Salvadoran society and for the right wing this is not a topic open for debate, study and much less of forgive and forget. How can the people forgive when no responsible party has owned up to the atrocities and asked for forgiveness?<br />
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■It wasn’t even five days after the truth commission published its report on the atrocities, violations to Human Rights and crimes against humanity that the people of this small nation that they were spat in the face with the Amnesty law to make peace solid. Coincidence? This law protected all war criminal from being investigated, prosecuted or punished for his actions. On the television; given that most media in El Salvador is owned by the right wing fanatics, the commission of the Joint Chief of staff of the armed forces in Salvador easily got air time to say the truth commission was corrupt and that the armed forces had nothing to do, and was not guilty for the crimes exposed in the report.<br />
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■The question remains, if the armed forces and government authorities are innocent of what the Truth Commission Report accuses them of why do they need a law to pardon them and protect them, and why do they hide behind this law. If they are innocent wont history absolve them. Why do they need and Amnesty law. Why is it that every time that the people ask their elected officials for the truth about the disappeared the archives of the defense department are closed? These archives don’t belong to the individual administrating, they belong to the people. That’s right these documents belong to you the people, you paid for them with your taxes. But because if you find out the truth, you might demand justice and you might demand those responsible to be punished. Because you might be filled with an unstoppable energy to be recognized as citizens with inalienable rights and take back the country from those who have kidnapped it since its birth…you cannot see these archives<br />
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■In Spain many of the monuments that honored the memory of the bloody dictator Francisco Franco have been taken down from public view. In El Salvador there is a plaza that honors the United Nations, a pillar that stands for Human Rights and defender of these rights. Not 500 meters from this plaza there is another Plaza that honors the memory of Roberto Da’buisson, the creator of the infamous death squads in the country and intellectual author of the murder of Monsignor Romero. In our country there are not only monuments honoring violators of Human Rights but they also elect officials to the government that are have violated human rights, assassins that are elected to the national legislative assembly. Such is the case of those responsible for the massacre at El Clabozo in San Vicente like the congress man Sigfrido Ochoa Perez.<br />
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■There is a saying…”Treason does never proper”. Why? Because if it prospers no one dare call it “treason”. These massacres by state mercenaries and their cover up and the continuous impunity is the biggest treason to the Salvadoran people by the government that represnts them.<br />
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■These tribunals are for the purpose to learn the truth, nothing in our lives is so important as the truth as that from the truth we can search for a better life that those younger than ourselves deserve. <br />
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We must uncover the truth, for our own sake we must search and find the truth. We must demand from our government, our state to listen to the past and not turn its back to it. The truth is the greatest virtue we posses. Without it we don’t know where we came from and don’t know where we are going. As always, the future, its for you to decide.Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-88874115648297513132012-03-25T23:43:00.001-06:002012-03-25T23:45:10.496-06:00La verdad (verdad sobre la guerra expuesto durante el cuarto Tribunal Internacional para la Justicia Restaurativa)<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><b><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:Arial">Cada vez que es el aniversario de la muerte de Monseñor Romero, o de los Padres Jesuitas</span></b><span style="font-family:Arial"> o cuando estos temas se pone en tela de juicio los medios y en particularmente la derecha empezando por el partido ARENA y seguido por el partido de las dictaduras militares, del PCN dicen que eso es “algo que quedo en el pasado”, que “no hay que abrir viejas heridas”, que “el pueblo salvadoreño a continuado y ya no le importa estos temas.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><b><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:Arial">Pero miremos esta foto.</span></b><span style="font-family:Arial"> (Proyectar foto de “guardia nacional vive”) Esta foto fue tomada el 4 de febrero del presente año marcando los 100 años de la fundación de la guardia nacional en un evento ogranizado por Academia de Historia Militar de El Salvador.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><b><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:Arial">Aparentemente esto no es cosa del pasado.</span></b><span style="font-family:Arial"> Aún existe la herida hecha en la Cayetana hacia 38 años. Y ellos aún se halagan como heroes, y hay de aquellos que los piensan como heroes . Ellos estan interesados que el pueblo no hable de estos temas de cual se trata esté tribunal. <b><i><u>Dependen del olvido. Dependen del olvido del pueblo.<o:p></o:p></u></i></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><b><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:Arial">Pero como ven una foto habla mil palabras no?</span></b><span style="font-family:Arial"> Ellos estan orgullosos de las heridas que causaron en este pueblo y para ellos no es tema obejto de estudiar, <b><i>ni de perdon y olvido</i></b>. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><b><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:Arial">No fueron ni cinco dias después que salio el reporte de la comisión de la verdad</span></b><span style="font-family:Arial"> que entro en vigencia la ley de amnistía protegiendo a todo criminal de guerra. En la Telivision salieron todos del estado mayor diciendo que la comision de la verdad estaba viciada, que la fuerza armada nor era culpable de estas atrocidades. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><b><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:Arial">La pregunta es ¿Si eran inocentes de lo que les acusaba el reporte de la comisión de la verdad, porque es que se escudan tras esta ley de amnistía?</span></b><span style="font-family:Arial"> ¿Por qué es que cada vez que se pide que se sepa la verdad, los archivos son cerrados? Archivos que le pertenecen al pueblo, estos documentos les pertenece a ustedes, ustedes pagaron por ellos. Pero por el hecho que ustedes al saber la verdad puedan exigir justicia y que castiguen a los responsables, ustedes no pueden ver estos archivos.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><b><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:Arial">En España muchos de los monumentos que le rendian honor a Francisco Franco han sido removidos de las vias publicas.</span></b><span style="font-family:Arial"> Aquí en nuestro pais existe un redondel en cual rinde honor a las Naciones Unidas, ente que vela por los Derechos Humanos. Ni a 500 metros se encuentra otro redondel que le rinde honor a Roberto Da’buisson, el creador de los escuadrones de la muerte y autor intelectual de la muerte de Monseñor Romero. En nuestro país no solo existen monumentos de violadores de derechos humanos sino que también se eligen asesinos a la asamblea legislativa. Como el responsable de las muertes en el calabozo, el asesino de nombre Ocoa Perez.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><b><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:Arial">Hay un dicho,“Tración nunca prospera”,</span></b><span style="font-family:Arial"> porque? Porque si prospera nadie se atreve llamarla “Tración”. Estos asesinatos por mercenarios estatales, masacres, y el posterior incubrimiento y la continua impunidad es la traición mas grande contra el pueblo salvadoreño. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><b><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:Arial">Estos tribunales son para conocer la verdad</span></b><span style="font-family:Arial">, nada en nuestras vidas sera tan importante como la verdad, ya que apartir de ella podemos buscar el futuro que los mas jovenes merecen. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><span style="font-family:Arial"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align:justify"><b><span style="font-size:14.0pt;font-family:Arial">Debemos destapar la verdad, por nuestro bien debemos saber la verdad</span></b><span style="font-family:Arial">, debemos exigir a nuestro gobierno, nuestro estado que escuche el pasado, no que lo ignore. La verdad es la virtud mas grande que podemos poseer. Sin ella no sabemos de donde venimos ni para donde vamos. Como siempre, el futuro, es desición de ustedes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-90184797024232843032012-03-16T20:41:00.006-06:002012-03-16T20:51:51.178-06:00Dar la Espalda<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span ></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Odio mi corazón, </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Odio la compasión que me hace sentir</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >No se si es que soy mas debil</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Pero si se que soy diferente</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span > </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Lo unico que siento que me hace fuerte</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Es mi ira,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >En un tiempo no conoci mi familia</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Cuando la conoci me lamente</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span > </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Ahora conozco nueva gente </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Y se parece que estoy conociendo </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Conociendo una nueva familia</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Me pongo a llorar al verlos</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Me pongo a llorar al ver lo que les han hecho.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span > </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Veo sus caras</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Hasta cuando cierro los ojos</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >veo sus caras</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >En sus ojos algo vacio</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >El vacio que les dejaron</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span > </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Lejos sin la verdad en sus bocas</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Lejos esta la verdad en el tiempo</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Pero el dolor esta cerca y duele</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Duele tanto a ellos que me duele a mi</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span > </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >En un rincon de un bosque </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Lugar manchado con sangre</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Con casquillos de balas norte americanas</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Con huezos del pobre</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Que solo pudo ser Salvadoreño</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Aquí esta la verdad</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Aquí esta lo que me hace llorar</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Apesar que no me hicieron nada</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Al ver esas caras me duele y se moja mi cara</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span > </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Se ven tan iguales y a la vez tan distintos</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Iguales en su dolor</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Distintos por ser personas</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Tanto que eh tratado de olvidar</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Tanto que eh tratado de dejar esto atras</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Mi corazón no me deja</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Así odio mi corazon</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span >Me hace llorar</span></p><div style="font-size: 9px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; "><span ><br /></span></div><p></p><p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; "></p><p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; "></p>Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-91689742190211703202012-01-11T23:55:00.004-06:002012-01-12T00:18:00.234-06:00Memories of a Winter<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "></p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">How with my sight my stomach cramped up, with her smell my heart raced and standing there I was no longer cold. The wind would blow ice past my earlobes but all I could feel was the last time my breath was close to hers. My hands obedient; not moving in any way, even if she did, my legs frozen as a soldier to stand his ground, until the last goodbye. Then when the command was given then they would do an about face and march. Into the world, they would march and not look back. When she finally spoke my voice mixed with her’s in unison saying farewell. How my eyes did not blink, how they did not shed a tear, how my body tore my sight from her; I don’t know, nor do I want to know, because I just might cry to know that secret.</p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "></p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">The feeling escaped like a water still let unplugged. Every step I took killed her inside me just a little, and the part of her that died inside me took a piece of me with it. Every step I took further away I died a little inside. Yet for a long time she was not gone from me, for a long time she was with me. The events between us, all significant, all beautiful, all worth a story at all of tomorrow’s parties. That would always stay, she would always be alive like I left her. As time would morph us into other people than the young ones we were when we met, she would be alive as I remember her in a moment in time. Eventually that is all she would be is a memory, something I was fond of but out grew, something beautiful that grew in my mom’s garden but one day while I was gone, died and something else replaced it.</p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "></p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 17px; line-height: normal; text-align: -webkit-auto; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; ">One day we are to meet again and all that was a storm of love in my heart would have turned into a smile and a “nice to see you”. Behind it all, you touch your heart where you left her and where once you felt so much it hurt now is numb cold; she lives here no longer. It’s a smile, that’s all you can offer, all you can do now. Time has happened. Somewhere, sometime, something happened and now she is gone except as a memory, which is the same as a fairytale by this point. She was real though, touch your heart once again where you left her and that nothing you feel, cold and numb, that is a scar. She was real…and so was love for the first time.</p><p></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 16px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><em> </em></p>Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-41219898947666734662012-01-02T16:46:00.001-06:002012-01-02T16:46:39.668-06:00<object width="420" height="315"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/jknynk5vny8?version=3&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/jknynk5vny8?version=3&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="420" height="315" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-65054594938647255702012-01-02T14:17:00.002-06:002012-01-02T14:25:15.167-06:00DesprecioUna vez mas a lo unico que me ama...<div>La oscuridad...</div><div>amaneci en un mundo alterno </div><div>donde el incompetente y al que no le importa</div><div>es valorado y el que entrega su corazón </div><div>es el desprecio,</div><div>Una vez mas a la celda</div><div>ahí pertenesco,</div><div>los animales se encierran,</div><div>los monstros se encierran para nunca ser visto</div><div>una vez mas a las tinieblas</div><div>ahí esta mi corazón...</div>Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-31318012649667521242011-12-27T17:04:00.001-06:002011-12-27T17:06:00.005-06:00recuerdo que me ayudo hacer esta historia...<div><br /></div><div><object width="420" height="315"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mvjEn4FtFV8?version=3&hl=en_US&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mvjEn4FtFV8?version=3&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="420" height="315" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div>Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-68016558893546824672011-12-06T08:16:00.003-06:002011-12-06T08:25:45.412-06:00Roberto Jordan y su Primer Amor<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"><b>Para Ambar (ABRS)</b></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"><br /></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD">(Esperando)</span></i><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> El sabor del cigarro delta que acababa de comprar estaba especialmente rancio y con un sabor distintivo con muestras de sumos de meados, pero ni modo el vicio es jodido y se necesita que disimular, mas en estos días y en este país. La tarde no esta triste pero no es entusiasmo radiante tampoco. La calle esta llena solo por ser esta parte de la ciudad el lugar de la dis que alegría, en pocas palabra el lugar de focos rojos faldas cortas viejas tripudas vendiendo virginidad chafa. Por veces virginidad adulterada en oferta con meados que parecen ser gillette saliendo del pene del cliente. Alegría no, vicio y costumbre sí, cualquier cosa por olvidar la situación, cualquier cosa por no enfrentar la realidad. El delta ahora si sabia a pura mierda y lo tira al suelo. La tarde se empieza de vestir ya de noche y los cheros aun no llegan.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> No estamos hablando como que fuera lejos la sede del partido. Solo unas cuadras. Samuel se vino adelante para echarse el rollo y ver cual chupadero prometía menos amenaza de un balazo o cuchillazo. Roberto y Quique lo iban alcanzar para unos tragos que complementaran los cigarros delta con sabor a otro tipo de meados. Los carros pasaban y hacían el atardecer parecer más noche mas rápido por el humo que dejaban. Desde pequeño Samuel escuchaba que les decían las mujeres alegres, o las mujeres públicas. Publicas estaba de acuerdo, pero alegres era debatible, para el no había tal clasificación, eran las putas, los lugares eran los puteríos. Se reconoce el lugar por las casas tristes con el paso del tiempo, los bolos tirados culo arriba y el distintivo olor a meados añejados. Aquí venían a chupar después de las reuniones del partido por ser barato y por que después de unas dos que tres cualquier tripuda se ve buena para una erección. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Esta tarde la reunión en el partido estuvo buena, la verdad siempre esta buena la reunión, ya que cuando se reúnen hombres hablar mierdas a todo volumen de libertad y justicia se levantan los ánimos. Pero solo en la sede se hace esto. Las cosas no han sido igual desde que mataron a Mario. En ese tiempo se creía mas la platica de cambio y justicia para el pueblo. La sede la deben convertir en un chupadero para no tener que llegar aquí, hablar pajas y chupar. Alucinar y quedan de goma el siguiente día, viven engañados pero viven, solo que en un solo sitio sin tener que llegar donde las putas con olor a pescado sin ser noche de mariscos. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Samuel llega a la conclusión que la libertad y justicia es para los gringos y para los ricos que la pueden comprar. Se pone a dudar de por que va a las reuniones para darse paja, el era realista. Pero aun los realistas necesitan paja para convertirla en esperanza, quizás no toda la vida se tiene que comer mierda, sonreír y llamarlo pan dulce. Se tiene que creer en algo para levantarse en la mañana para vivir un día más. Ahorita el cree en que sus camaradas son unos desconsiderados ya que necesita su dosis de cerveza y mirar mujeres feas convertirse en hermosuras con cada baso que termina. Sin saberlo ha encendido otro delta y la noche ha llegado. Por su mente Samuel piensa como va manipular a sus cheros en comprar las primeras rondas por hacerlo esperar tanto tiempo. Mas en esa calle que cualquier tamarindo se te acerca y “MOCOS” te pone la navaja y ahí van tus pesitos para comprarle su droga al maldito mientras vos estas pidiendo un cerveza gratis y un polvo gratis a las putas. Gratis también te pueden dar una vergueada. O te vas a la cantina y esperas un salivazo, y comes sal de la cantina mezclada con las lágrimas y mocos de los bolos perdidos que llegan a llorarle al cantinero. Aquí también te pueden recetar una vergueada gratis. Vale verga piensa Samuel. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Volviendo su pensamiento a la política concluye además que la política es una farsa, derecha, izquierda, centro, solo son direcciones en como te van a joder al pueblo. Las reuniones entusiasmadas y eléctricas, ahí quedan, en puras palabras. Las amenazas de la derecha de que quien no este con ellos es comunista y que el país será la tumba donde los rojos terminaran son puras pajas. Palabras para inflar egos de cerotes que no les dieron de mamar cuando eran niños. Pensando esto esta Samuel cuando pasa un camión de la guardia nacional. Su miedo lo invade como una violación violenta. No dice nada solo esta pensando en política, pero con solo ver el camión de gorilas que parecen la versión latina de </span><st1:personname productid="la SS"><span lang="ES-TRAD">la SS</span></st1:personname><span lang="ES-TRAD"> calla sus pensamientos. Capaz que puedan leer mentes estos brutos. Se siente una eternidad pero desaparecen de vista. Milagro que no pararon ahí para recetarle una tastasiada por esquinero. Pasan unos minutos y en el suelo Samuel nota que hay unas cuatro cabuyas. Al fin llegan los amigos y a la noche de escapar la realidad puede empezar, las cervezas y putas feas los convertirán en poetas y artistas en noche de fiesta. Hasta la mañana cuando la realidad este frente a ellos, con una goma mata elefantes y pisa bolos. Pisa bolos por descuidados.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Roberto estaciona su chevrolete más viejo que la gonorrea. Es un carro blanco que recuerda tiempos de prosperidad en estados unidos, aun cuando el indio ni siquiera a huelido la frontera con Guatemala. Roberto estaciona su carro mirando para fuera listo para salir. Tendrá sus razones. La leyenda del carro blanco chevy era que una vez en una su zumba de unos quince días Roberto lo andaba lleno de bolos, hasta en el baúl dicen, y que lleno el tanque de gas a pura cerveza y funciono el carro. DICEN. Samuel empieza a notar la música por primera vez, aunque ya tenia casi una hora de esperar, el MERECUMBE, puta sonaba bien, iba ser una noche de regia, barrilito y pilsener, y con un poco de suerte amanecer en la playa. No seria primera vez, Samuel esperaba que no fuera la ultima, estos escapes y alucinaciones eran lo que lo mantenían lejos de ahorcarse o tomarse unas dos que tres mata ratas. Mientras acomoda el carro Roberto nota la sonrisa en el rostro de él y de Quique. Malditos pedos agrios pasaron por la cantina y empezaron sin el, por eso se tardaron los pendejos. Al momento que estos pensamientos le cruzan por la mente Quique le sonríe y levanta una botella de Smirnoff aun no comenzada. Para mas tarde cuando todo este correcto con el mundo y se necesita la segunda ola de energía para cometer mas pendejadas. Que bonito es vivir a verga, pero solo periódicamente. Vivir a verga por ratos y no todo el tiempo en el pavimento durmiendo abrazado de otro bolo entre meados culo arriba. Dicen que hasta culeros se hacen, HUY, eso si que no piensa Samuel. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -¡Puta, ya era hora malditos!- Les dice Samuel empezando la manipulación para salvar unos cuantos pesos en las primeras rondas de la noche.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Es que pasamos para agarrar refuerzos para más noche y mientras estábamos en Roma pedimos unos cuantos y Adentro Cojutepeque.- Roberto un prieto con sonrisa de caricatura y una corona que resaltaba en la poca luz de la noche. Ya estaban entrados y Samuel se sentía algo enojado por estar atrasado. Con razón, si estas con otros bolos y no están parejos es decir al mismo nivel es pura mierda. No sentís la felicidad de ellos, y la platica de bolos son puras pendejadas que suenan a poesía solo cuando estas a verga.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Mira, para que no te sintas mal te podes echar un vergazo del la botella para empezar bien- Quique empezó a buscar la botella en el carro. Pero antes de que la encontrara Samuel le dijo que mejor buscaran mesa y salvar la niña para cuando este perra la situación. La música llena el aire, en la distancia se huele carne asando y se escucha la música de otros chupaderos y putas tirando piropos para ganar el sueldo de la noche. Solo de sudar un ratito, y esperar que hombre sea precoz para que entre el siguiente cliente. Así se pasa rápido la noche, unos tragos, unos en cima, unos abajo, y una bañada. Cualquier cosa para olvidar la realidad. Entran al chupadero e puterío, la noche en la capital, en plena guerra civil con una dictadura que para ellos todos eran comunistas, en pleno conflicto, los de derecha, los de izquierda, los del centro, hasta los guerrilleros se rinden a el guaro y las putas.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> <i>Nací en un cantón solo con mi mama ya que mi tata decidió irse a establecer más hogares que a posterior los dejaría. Parece que estaba tratando de fundar una franquicia. Cuando llego la guerra a mi pueblo ya tenía mis días sobre la tierra. Nunca había tenido problemas con otro hombre que no involucraba una mujer o que nos pasáramos de tragos. Tampoco había tenido problema que no se podía resolver con un par de trompones o unas dos patadas para saborear la sangre de uno. La guerra trajo un nuevo pleito al pueblo y no involucraba tragos ni putas, ni nada que se podía arreglar con los puños. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Mi nana siempre me dijo que hay que respetar las autoridades, que era por el bien de los demás. Así lo pensé. Así respete. Nunca había comido pericos yo para ser un indio respondón y por lo tanto no creía que iba a ofender a la autoridad. Pero estos brutos que mandan de la capital, coma mierda. Desde que llegaron: vos sos, vos sos, vos sos, sino te pareces, sino ya estuvo. Todos los hombres del pueblo solo aguantar verga. ¿Y que podíamos hacer? Pegaban con las culatas de los fusiles y si abríamos el hocicó le daban vuelta a esa anímala y después uno bien serio en una caja. El indio tiene que ser vivo y no pendejo. Mejor aguantar por nada que ser recordado con una cruz de madera que habla el nombre de uno porque uno ya esta sin poder abrir la trompa. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Nosotros no éramos católicos. Hace mucho tiempo que el último cura se fue de esta villa. Aquí solo hay cristianos. Dicen que los curas se han puesto de acuerdo con los comunistas. Que tarde o temprano nos van a tener a nosotros comiendo niños. A mi no me consta. Yo veo que es la misma canasta que pasan para recoger pisto. Le dan un pedazo de esa galleta salada pero sin sal, y una copita pequeña con vino. Solo que no tiene guaro. Solo es jugo de uva. Era una decepción para los hombres. Pero por lo menos no nos podían decir que éramos comunistas. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Estos brutos les vale verga. Solo a repartir cachimbiadas les enseñan en el cuartel. Y esto es que dicen que los gringos han venido a enseñarles. ¿A que? No lo se. Pero se ve lo mismo que antes. Siempre es un pobre cristiano pijíado por faltar el respeto. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Un noviembre bien tarde me pase con mi compadrito por la cantina para ver si nos calentábamos las orejas. A mi casi no me gusta ir con él a la cantina, ya que cuando se toma un su cachimbazo se hace larga la noche. Este día andaba de humor, y tenía mis días de no agarrarla. Salimos de la cantina quizás como a las nueve de la noche por que muy tarde íbamos a mantener a Mauricio el cantinero con la venta abierta. Mejor le pido una botella el compadre para llevar. No habíamos caminado mucho cuando nos encontramos con unas sombras que parecían gorilas. Nos recetaron una de respeto. Yo no me acuerdo que los mande a la mierda solo vénganos a tu reino. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Nos llevaron a la delegación. No se si era que estaba mas a vergueado que a verga pero se escuchaba muchas cosas ahí. Cosas de pesadillas. Escuchaba un cristiano que gritaba con un dolor que hacia que mis huevos se encogieran. Primero sacaron al compadre para tomar sus datos. A mi no me tomaron datos. Antes que regresara mi compadre a la celda me habían sacado a mí. A otro cuarto, me rompieron la camisa. Y me pusieron un saco en la cabeza para no ver. Cuando sentí tenía las manos amarradas en mi espalda. Después sentí la primer patada en la espalda. Podía distinguir que era patada por como se sentía la bota. Después sentí en la cara un vergazo. Empecé a toser, y los brutos como que no les gusto mucho eso. Eran más de dos cabrones. Después no me acuerdo de mucho. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Cuando sentí me estaban quitando el saco de la cabeza, y miraba la luz del cuarto donde me habían llevado. La cara la sentía como que se me había inflado. El cuerpo lo sentía pura masa en guacal. El sabor simple medio salado y caliente en mi boca era mi sangre que estaba botando a montones. Sentí que me pusieron un mecate en la nuca. En estos momentos me acorde de mi madrecita y sus palabra de respetar la autoridad. No es tanto respetar la autoridad sino que evitarlos. Yo no había abierto la trompa en ningún momento. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Ahí estaba por un momento escuchando a lo lejos lo que hablaban los cabrones pero no podía distinguir. Es mas solo miraba luz pero no hacia figuras los ojos. Quizás eran solo unos cuantos segundos pero se sentía como horas. Ahí estaba hincado amarrado de las manos. Llorando sangre. Echando dientes. Con una soga en la nuca, y aun hasta este momento no me llego la idea que mi iban a matar. Pero eventualmente llego ese pensamiento. Pero a esta altura por la gran paliza no podía llorar. Se me había olvidado como llorar. En ese momento empezaron a jalarme y para arriba iba yo. No me acuerdo de mucho después de eso. Cuando desperté estaba en el suelo saboreando el concreto mezclado con mi sangre. Podía ver unos des mis dientes en el suelo. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> El doctor dijo que no iba a volver a ver con mi ojo derecho. Y no tengo el dinero para pagar unas placas ya que esos brutos me dejaron con solo 4 dientes. Hijos de puta según ellos no se necesitan para mascar tortilla las muelas. No hay que tomar venganza pero uno no es Dios y no es santo, uno es humano y ser humano es resentir y es buscar ajustar cuentas. Nunca vi la cara del hijo de sesenta mil putas que decidió recetarme esa paliza para quedar medio choco, ni que el compadre quede en el panteón. Para mi todos esos perros son la misma mierda y tarde o temprano este ojo bueno que tengo va mirar por este fusil y le va sembrar un plomazo en la cabeza. Voy a ser cristiano porque no van a sufrir tanto. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD">(Sentados) </span></i><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> La mesera era la típica del centro de la ciudad. Tenia sus buenas partes pero era mas para reciclar que para consumir. Después de unas dos que tres quizás se miraba mejor, pero por ahorita los tres amigos la pusieron en el fondo de la mente para encontrarla cuando la casería seria de lagartija para arriba. Se ordeno la primera ronda de cerveza de barrilito preguntando que había de boca. Siempre las mismas chucherias que el bolo se hartaba después de que su lengua sentía todo como miel. Salchichas fritas, costilla salada, queso duro, pedacitos de pizza, todo en primer momento suena como el contenido de un basurero. Samuel pidió la boca de queso, según una tía de él, el queso absorbía más el liqour y no se emborrachaba tan rápido. El local estaba lo suficiente lleno para que se escuchara el rugido de una muchedumbre sobre la rockola que sonaba de viejos tiempos en discos rayados. En el momento se escuchaba el romance en la voz de Julio Iglesias cantando como se le olvido de vivir. Este era un chupadero para los melancólicos, ya que la música en la rockola inspiraba a tomar mas y recordar mejores tiempos si es que existieron o suicidarse. De las dos formas el chupadero ganaba dinero.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Era un sábado y los obreros les gustaban su cerveza fría acompañada de una sonrisa llena de coronas de las meseras y un poco el tufo a ruda o en su ausencia sobaco. Además de ser un chupadero de melancólicos era un chupadero de obreros, y no de ricos. Los ricos estaban mas arriba en su Zona Rosa con sus cervecitas importadas con una servilleta envuelta. Hablaban de cómo los indios estaban dispuestos a dar la vida por ellos en el ejército mientras sus hijos estrenaban carros deportivos europeos. Los ricos estaban preocupados, también los obreros. Unos por su dinero, los otros por sus vidas y la hartazon de mañana. El guaro siempre curaba para ambos los dolores de cabeza. Escuadrones de la muerte, comunistas encapuchados, viva tu vida momento a momento. Cerveza de buena calidad. La vida social y la política se mezclan de maravilla con el guaro. Poco a poco se llenaba el chupadero pero al fin la mesera llevaba los vasos de cerveza. La noche estaba fresca y había breeza. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Que verga de reunión. Al fin empezamos a hablar las cosas en concreto.- Quique hace una pausa para jalar el primer trago. –Te digo que estos creen que por matar a uno terminaron con el partido.-<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Puta se te subieron los dos traguitos que nos zampamos. Ya estas hablando mierdas.- Roberto medio sonríe pero se le ve en los ojos el miedo que alguien escucho.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Mira por favor hablen un poco mas duro no creo que el estado mayor les escucho para que vengan y nos corten los huevos y los zampen en nuestras bocas. Espérenme que quiero alcanzarlos para no tener miedo de hablar semejante pendejada. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Mira Samuel no tenes unas monedas quiero escuchar algo de los Angeles negros y no traigo suelto.- Quique se empieza a levantar terminando su primer vaso de cerveza. En esos momentos llega la mesera. –Mira mi amor tráenos otras tres o mejor tráenos una jarra.- La mesera deja otros vasos en la mesa del lado recoge otros pedidos. Quique esta en la rockola mirando los discos y sus números.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Este hijo de puta no puede hablar más mierdas porque no tiene dos culos. Pero la reunión si estuvo buena. Si la gente no tiene miedo, en las próximas les quitamos el parlamento.- Roberto mira a su alrededor, no por miedo pero ahora por lujuria. Samuel ya sabe como es Roberto, media vez se siente cómodo y a buscar nalgas. Era hombre casado y con hijos, pero cada hombre tiene sus faltas. No era mal esposo aparte de las damas, y no era mal padre. Cuando tenia 17 años su padre y el fueron acusados de subversivos por la guardia nacional en el pueblo donde nació y creció. Esos brutos les recetaron una paliza de respeto. Su padre perdió sus muelas y Roberto perdió el sonido en su oreja derecha. Y eso fue el principio. Los metieron en las bartolinas del pueblo chorreando de sangre y más muertos que vivos. A media noche los sacaron y los tiran a un camión de la guardia y se los llevan para la capital. Al castillo donde muchos han llegado a quedarse como abono para el jardín. Por milagro de Dios un teniente que era familia los saco. Sin dinero, sin zapatos, y doliendo a mujer recién parida. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Ya va tocar- se sienta Quique observando la mesa buscando su segunda cerveza. Samuel ya terminaba su vaso y encendía un Delta. Ya el sabor no era tan mal, la cerveza le cubría con su sabor. Samuel tomo ejemplo de Roberto y empezó a mirar los prospectos. Nada hasta ahorita o la cerveza no había tomado efecto aun. Levanta un pedazo de queso y lo saborea. Se recuerda de sus días en su propio pueblo cuando el queso tenía sabor al cariño de su mama con unos frijolitos y no a amargura de la vida mezclada con cerveza barata y penas caras. Hace mucho tiempo que Samuel dejo de mirar la televisión, ya no le creía ya no ponía sus esperanzas en programas que en la vida real dejaba desilusión. Prefería comerse la realidad con toda su amargura. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -No hay nada nuevo bajo el sol. La reunión de hoy será superada por la de la próxima semana. Y la próxima. Siempre hablando mierdas que no se van a llevar acabo. Castillos en el aire que son muy caros para pagar. Estoy perdiendo la fe.- En ese momento llega la mesera con la segunda ronda y otros pedazos de queso. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -¿Y para que llegas cada semana? Acaso es terapia para vos o que putas pensas? Roberto suena un poco molesto.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -No se, quizás estoy esperando un milagro, estoy esperando que Dios se haga presente. Quique sabe mejor que meterse en este problema y toma un poco de queso y levanta su vaso mirando a su alrededor.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Para nosotros Dios no se hace presente eso solo pasa en el escalón. Acostúmbrate. Aquí aunque sea con palabras pero nosotros tenemos que hacer las cosas pasar. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD">(En el fondo de las mentes de los borrachos enojados por no estar a verga)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Puta, para que nací en un país donde es pasatiempo cortarle la cabeza a un indio. Guardias hijos de puta caminan como que son mas que los demás. Malditos mal paridos, cerotes mal cagados, bastardos que mejor hubiesen sido un pedo de la nana en vez de una vida. Nacidos en mierda, y se creen de descendencia de españoles. A lo más que llegan es a ser, son descendientes de los mismos perros que traeron los españoles. A saber que se creen estos malditos. Tarde o temprano van a ver cuando los indios empiecen a tomar cabezas. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Que cara esta la cerveza estos días, es más y más difícil para ver estas putas como hermosas, es difícil olvidar la realidad que soy albañil y alucinar que soy un galán de las novelas de que mira mi mujer. Puta en vez de gastar en cerveza tras cerveza mejor voy al campo y me harto un hongo de mierda de vaca y puedo ver cosas que solo se ven en las caricaturas. Cada día se hace mas difícil ser alcohólico y aguantar la vida mirando en la tele los chelitos del partido en el gobierno como es que viven como en Beverly Hills y nosotros color de mierda vivimos como en el África. No se si en el África hay putas como estas. Dos mundos en el mismo país mierda. Quizás es hora de pasarnos a diesel. Muy cara la suprema, que nos salve el TIC TAC. TIC TAC hasta que me parezca gringo, y una de estas putas parezca una venezolana. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Puta estas a verga. Si Dios no se hace presente para nosotros y solo para los del escalón por que no cambiamos el nombre del partido. Si Dios no tiene lugar para los pobres o el pueblo, no debemos llamarnos democracia cristiana.- Roberto mira a Samuel sin tener con que ganar el argumento. Mejor busca empinarse su vaso. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> La conversación toma un nuevo giro y se olvidan de la política por el momento. Mejor es no mezclar debate de política cuando estas tratando de sentirte en cualquier lugar menos en tu propia situación. Mejor hablar de cosas que no pasan, de más jodarrias, de mujeres buenas y fáciles. Las vergueras son valuables, y por que desperdiciar el buen sentimiento que te da el alcohol antes que cobra sus dividendos con gomas que ponen a cualquier vergonazo a mamar. Escuchar la música, y tomar la cervecita mientras esta fría. Gastar pisto para hacer castillos en el aire y después mearlo en la calle o vomitarlo con el almuerzo después de que no te acordas tu propio nombre. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> <i>Para los maestros del engaño… les decimos que el pueblo salvadoreño no esta ciego. Señores de la democracia cristiana no sigan envenenando las mentes de este pueblo trabajador. Pueblo salvadoreño no se engañen por las apariencias… son como sandias… democracia cristiana verde por fuera…Moscú comunista rojo por dentro…Comunistas criminales con instintos de animales, han matado, han violado nuestro país han arruinado… ¡PATRIA SI COMUNISMO NO!<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> <i>(Entrando por la puerta)<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Estos dos sujetos no necesitan introducción, uno rapado con sus rayban puestos a pesar que esta oscuro afuera. Es obvio que no son obreros o por lo menos no trabajan en la corta de café. El otro es un típico indio tratando de hacerse pasar por oligarca, tiene buena ropa pero no le queda bien. Se nota que esta borracho pero aun coordina. No necesitan introducción ya que andan buscando presa para la noche. El Salvador será la tumba donde los rojos, los verdes, los indios, los curas, las monjas, los católicos, los humanos se terminaran. Roberto los ve primero mientras toman un panorama del lugar. Roberto mira hacia su cinturas y sabe que no son de por aquí ya que el revolver en el indio perdido en la política y la escuadra del calvo con los rayban le indica que son entrenados por asesores gringos con las siglas de CIA. La ecuación es simple: machitos militares en disfraz de civil mas tres pendejos medio a verga del partido demócrata cristiano es igual a un para de cadáveres sin cabeza hediendo con moscas en el Playón. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Roberto no habla, pero le hace entender con su mirada a Quique y a Samuel que es lo que acaba de entrar por la puerta. Se pasa por la garganta su dedo gordo y mira hacia la puerta. Uno por uno Samuel y Quique se dan vuelta y confirman. Es en este momento que empieza a tocar la canción de Los Ángeles Negros que había marcado Quique en la rockola. La canción era apropiada para unos hombres que estaban en la sombra de la muerte casi hueliendo sus propios cadáveres sin cabezas. La canción empieza con una melodía sutil y oscura, para, y las primeras palabras salen. La canción es Como Quisiera Decirte. Los tres hombres se miran uno a otro alrededor de la mesa y piensan en otras personas no presentes. A este momento los tres son los únicos seres queridos que tienen cada uno, ya que después de aquí, de este chupadero, de esta verguera no hay nada. No existe el mundo fuera de este lugar. Una vez mas Roberto mira y los matones los han localizado y hace su camino hacia el bar que esta de tras de la mesa de los tres amigos.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> <i>Mi padre no era más que un campesino que tuvo que dejar sus tierras para venirse a vivir a la capital. Tuvo que aprender a ser otras cosas, reeducarse para sobrevivir aquí. No había donde sembrar maíz o frijoles o miacio. No sirvió lo que aprendió de mi abuelo, no sirvió lo que mi abuelo trabajo para darles a sus hijos. Al principio me decía que estaba gastando mi tiempo con las charlas que atendía. Es mas me decía que estaba poniendo en peligro a nuestra familia por que iban a decir que éramos comunistas. Comunistas; la palabra la decía mi viejo como que el entendía lo que era. Mi viejo no podía leer ni escribir y no le molestaba esto, ni le molestaba que solo con caytes andaba toda su vida aun después de llegar a San Salvador. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Mi hermano siempre era un gran lobo. No había caperucita que se le escapara. Me imagino que por parte de su vida las cosas eran fáciles. El hecho de enamorar a las cipotas no era cosas exclusivas de ricos, por lo menos en ese entonces. Las hembras siempre lo seguían, y el lo aprovechaba. Yo en cambio nací resentido. Por ser pobre, por tener un tata que me ahuevaba a cada rato por no ser como el, por las mierdas y cagadales de los guardias hijos de sesenta mil putas. En la colonia no había mucho crimen, pero cuando estaban aburridos esos perros llegaban para levantarse el ánimo casi matando a cualquier cristiano a culatazos. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> De repente mi hermano cambio. No se por que. Sus razones tuvo. Me dijo que lo acompañara a una reunión. Cuando le pregunte de que era la reunión me dijo que no preguntara tanta mierda y si lo iba acompañar o no. Lo acompañe. Cuando llegamos, era una casa abandonada en el rincón de la colonia. Huelia a meados y mierda. Los bolos la usaban. Habian candelas y habían unos cuantos otros ahí. Chavos de la colonia que conocía de vista por la mayoría y uno que dos que les recete un poco de la ultra violencia en el pasado y ellos hicieron lo mismo con migo. Eran como las 9 de la noche, y esperaba que al salir no nos encontrarnos con los perros. De repente se vieron unas sombras que llegaban. Entraron tres hombres y una mujer. Dos de los hombres traían pistolas visibles una vez que entraron donde estaba la luz. La mujer y el otro hombre sin nada más que unos papeles. Todos tenían un pañuelo sobre la cara. Eran de la nacional me imagino por que estaban algo joven. Los papeles eran volantes para pegar en los postes de la colonia. También traeron una botella. Era la primera vez que de verdad tome guaro. Nos enseñaron unas canciones de protestas. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Fue divertida esa noche e interesante. No mucho después de eso mataron a mi hermano. Guardias hijos de perra. Cuando los rojos se dieron cuenta me hablaron para ver si me quería ajustar cuentas con el guardia hijo de puta. Tenía miedo, no pude. Yo amaba mucho a mi hermano, es decir me llevaba mucho con el, cuando me miraba enojado por cualquier razón siempre me decía una pendejada para hacerme reír. Mi enojo no era su problema pero se preocupo por mí. Su muerte si era mi problema y no tenia los huevos para vengarme. Esto fue el principio de el guaro y la política para mi. No puedo matar como los guerrilleros pero no me puedo quedar callado y por eso me uní a la democracia cristiana.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Los corazones saltaban de sus pechos y sentían la mirada de los matones a sueldo del gobierno. Los tres quisieran hablar pero estaban paralizados ya que no podían decir su plan para engañar los matones y salvarse sus vidas. En ese momento Quique fue presa del pánico y se levanto.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Tengo que ir a mear. Ya vuelvo.- Samuel y Roberto solo se miraron de tras de sus vasos de cerveza. Samuel que tenia la vista mas clara de los matones le movió los ojos a Roberto hacia el bar y empezó a sacar su dinero. Roberto entendió que era de pagar la cuenta. Si iban a morir aquí iban a morir solventes. Roberto tomo el dinero de Samuel y se levanto para ir a la caja y cancelar. Esto dejo a Samuel a solas con lo último de la jara de cerveza. Lo único era que estaba a más de la mitad. Cuando Samuel pasó la mirada hacia donde estaban los matones miro solo uno de ellos. Puta que pendejo es este Quique hijo de ramera barata. Maldito complico las cosas más de lo que ya estaban. Se tuvieron que mantener juntos. Solo el calvo quedaba en el bar. Sus rayban le daban el sabor a un ex indio que le ha llegado unos cuantos billetes. A los indios les gustan las cosas brillosas. El calvo dirigía su vista hacia la mesa. Tenía 5 cervezas a su lado. Agarro 3 de ellas y se dirigió hacia la mesa. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> En la caja Roberto pagaba las rondas. Miraba disimuladamente a su alrededor. El indio perdido en política estaba afuera de la puerta del baño esperando que no se escapara Quique. Miraba a su alrededor para ver la escapada. Hizo su camino hacia la mesa después de recibir su vuelto. Sentía sus pies mas pesados que en una borrachera normal. Pero era el miedo. El miedo paraliza, el miedo hace que te cagues. Se paro Roberto en frente de la mesa y con todo su esfuerzo saco sus palabras. A su vez llega el matón calvo con las tres cervezas.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Vamonos Samuel sino la vieja se va encabronar conmigo. Además ya gaste mas pisto que tengo.- Roberto siente la presencia del matón. –Y Quique ¿no ha vuelto?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Puta se van y yo que les iba invitar a una ronda.- El calvo se sienta en la mesa. Cuando esta sentado Samuel y se esta parando y Roberto mira hacia afuera. –Se sientan o aquí quedan, se sientan que vamos a platicar. - <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Roberto y Samuel se sientan. El calvo les reparte una cerveza cada uno. Nada de barril, eran cervezas en botella. El calvo se ajustaba en su asiento para mirarlos mejor. En este momento el mundo a su alrededor se sentía aun mas lejos que nunca. Ni una mesera se atravesaba o bolo pasaba. Ahora no era el chupadero, lo único que importaba era lo que pasaba en esta mesa, lo único que importaba eran las balas en la cromada </span><st1:metricconverter productid="9 mil■metro"><span lang="ES-TRAD">9 milímetro</span></st1:metricconverter><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Jericó que tenia el calvo. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Que dicen si vamos a dar un aventón a la playa con mi compadre. Conozco un lugar que hacen una verga de sopón y las bichas ahí están socaditas. El calvo da una mirada sínica y toma un trago de su botella. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Nosotros ya nos íbamos. Hay que descansar hemos tenido un día largo.- Roberto mira al calvo con visible miedo y ganas de esquivar la confrontación. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Si no nos vamos a tardar. Los tengo aquí antes de las 3 de la mañana.- El calvo tomo un tono levemente mas serio. Si…pensaba Samuel, nos va tener aquí antes de las 3 de la mañana pero en medicina legal como torso sin cabezas. Samuel se sorprendía que no era tanto el miedo sino que la ira que lo tenía atrapado. La cosa buena era que no había enloquecido con la ira sino ya estuvieran muertos. Mucha ira pudo tener pero nada que un plomazo no podía callar. Estos hijos de puta, pensaba Samuel, siempre con sus pistolas. Culeros que no pueden aguantar una pijieada a lo hombre. Culeros.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -No gracias- le decía Roberto al calvo. El calvo se da vuelta a Samuel quien lo esta mirando con cara de pasividad. No tiene ganas de conflicto pero no tiene miedo. Ira es lo que tiene. Samuel saca un Delta y lo enciende. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -¿Tenes algo que queres decir chero?- le pregunta el calvo a Samuel. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -No- le responde Samuel sin dejar de verlo. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Me imagino que su día fue uno largo y cansado, hablando tanta mierda en la sede del partido.- El calvo toma pausa para tomar otro trago. Ahora la cosa se estaba concretizando aun más. Ya no anda con tanta paja. Todavía daba miedo pero ahora estábamos hablando mas claro. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Nosotros tenemos que irnos, ya no tenemos mas dinero para gastar.- Roberto omite el comentario y trata que las cosas sean mas pacíficos. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Si donde los voy a llevar no necesitan pisto, ¿que no los estoy invitando pues?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Yo se quienes son- dice Samuel entre sus labios. La ira poco a poco se esta tomando control en un acto que Samuel va perder el control. El calvo le vuelve la vista a Samuel. Se sienta recto y pone la botella en la mesa y se quita los rayban. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Te pregunte si tenías algo que decir cerote. ¿Por que no respondiste cuando te pregunte?- El estaba buscando el pretexto para tomar la actitud de autoridad en este caso. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Por que no soy un recluta y yo hablo cuando me da la gana.- Samuel le responde. Roberto es color moreno pero mas pálido no se pudo poner en este momento. Rápidamente le quita la atención al matón de Samuel.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -¿Adonde vamos a ir?- le pregunta Roberto. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -A un viaje de muerte.- Le responde Samuel. Ahora estaba como papel Roberto tratando de mantener la atención del matón. El matón se da vuelta y se acerca a Samuel.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Yo se quienes son ustedes. Que lastima lo que le paso a Mario. Es hijo de puta creía que ya era Moisés a punto de librar a estos indios con toda esa platica de comunista disfrazada de democracia. Ustedes son una mierda que a mi me pagan para limpiar, malditos resentidos sociales, los ricos están contados y ustedes a la fuerza quieren que les den todo. Huevones que no trabajan. Ustedes solo sirven para agitar la gente cuando es mejor tener indios dóciles. Malditos mal….<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Y yo se quienes son ustedes cerote mal cagado.- Samuel se le acerca al calvo. La ira ya con total control de Samuel que en cualquiera otro momento no hubiese hecho esto. – Indio engañado, solo por codearte con ricos crees que sos uno de ellos. Sos un perro esperando que se les caiga algo de la mesa para que te la den pendejo. No sos uno de ellos, nunca serás uno de ellos. Nunca te sentaras en la mesa con ellos como un igual, a lo mas que serás sos el perro guardián de ellos limpiando su mierda. Un cholero, solo de eso trabajas, solo eso aspiras, solo eso serás maldito. Un indio que por tener un par de billetes ya se cree como su amo. Sos la misma mierda que colón encontró al llegar aquí: un indio dispuesto a vender su patria por espejos. Para ustedes los pobres son indios. Los subversivos solo son un vergo de espaldas corriendo en la calle para que saquen sus fusiles y disparen. Si me vas a matar pendejo no va ser con sumisión. - Samuel se le queda mirando en la cara al matón que esta hirviendo de ira. Se acomoda en su respaldo el matón y se calma. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -Terminen sus cervezas y después nos vamos.- Roberto mira cuando el calvo a movido su mano hacia su escuadra. Roberto esta pálido y no cree lo que acaba de pasar. Mira hacia Samuel quien es esta empinando la botella y mira a su alrededor pálido como papel bon. A este momento las líneas de oración en el cielo están algo congestionadas ya que Roberto esta bajando cada santo que su mente media ebria puede acordarse. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD">(El otro lado del salón)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> La mujer sentada con los 4 hombres en el otro lado de donde Roberto estaba reencontrando su fe no era camarera, mucho menos una prostituta que acostumbran llegar a estos lugares. Era una mujer casada, pero con ninguno de los hombres en la mesa que comparten con ella. Esta es una situación que parece tan inocente como cualquier esposa borracha e infiel. Pero lo que no sabe esta mujer es que su esposo que era un hombre considerado, amable, cariñoso, y por que no decirlo un poco sumiso; desde años anda arrastrando un maletazo de problemas de la cabeza que lo atormentan y lo frustran. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> La mujer le gusta echarse sus tragos y también sus damos. Su madre le dijo que no se casara con un hombre machista ya que solo aguantando verga la iba a pasar. Por eso se busco uno mansito. Mas de una vez el la había encontrado con hombres y no es que no se enojo pero no era nada que una buena actuación y unas promesas vacías no arreglaran. La onda con la mujer era basilar. No era otra cosa ella le gustaba chupar. La cerveza había sido amable con ella, la pasaba bien y parecía que no se desaparecía su belleza. Es decir no desarrollo tripa a base de Regia. Tenia la figura como siempre. Las gomas habían empezado a molestarla pero no era nada que no podía aguantar. Hombre no es el que no se deja sino el que la aguanta. Bueno así decía. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Los hombres con ella se estaban rifando quien se la iba a llevar esta noche al motel. Sabían que estaba casada y por eso era más atractiva. En cada hombre existe esa maldad de quitarle lo que le pertenece a otro. La cara de mujer después de unas cervezas estaba llena con deseos de sexo. En estos momentos no se acordaba de su niña que tenía ni mucho menos de su esposo. Lo que importaba en este momento era ella. Las ideas pasaban que su mama tenía razón con lo de los machistas pero ella deseaba un hombre galán, alto, guapo pero que no la trate mal. Hoy en día ella sabia que esto casi no se encontraba. Lo que se encontraba con esas calidades costaba caro en palizas y traiciones. Mejor ella iba ser la que abusaba y no la abusada.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Por el momento ella tenia que mirar los 4 prospectos que estaban a su alrededor. Ninguno era lo que ella en realidad deseaba. Pero para eso eran las cervezas. Se tomaba unas cuantas y calificaba. Miraba para juzgar cual se miraba mejor borracha. Al fin de la noche tenia que haber un ganador, claro estaba que no se iba acostar con los 4, no era así ella. Por lo menos aun no. A estas alturas de la verguera no había mucha distinción, los cuarto se iban a los penaltis. Mejor era alzar unas dos que tres más para superar los gustos y bajar las expectativas. De todos modos cualquiera de los 4 era mejor de lo que tenía en la casa. No en calidad de físico, pero en calidad de hombre. En la casa tenia una sirvienta sumisa en cuerpo de hombre. Por lo menos así lo pensaba. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD">(Desde afuera)</span></i><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> <i>No puedo creer esta pendeja. No eso si lo creo. Lo que no creo es que tan pendejo eh sido yo por creerlo. No considera ni mierda. Voy a esperarla. A ver que putas va hacer. Las mujeres son la misma mierda. Mi nana era la misma mierda. Por el pendejo de mi tata tuve que aguantar tantas mierdas. Hijo de puta más cobarde que no se quedo con nosotros. Solo pensó en el mismo. Maldito si te encuentro un día te voy a dar algo que no podas entender. Te voy a dar todo mi odio en forma material que podas sentir, vos también me las vas a pagar. Es mas hay un vergo de hijos de puta que me las deben. Pero por ahorita hay que empezar con la maldita que me juro amarme para siempre. Con esta empiezo. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Maldita nana que tuve. Solo aguantando todos los maridos hijos de puta que traía a la casa yo. Era solo de aguantar verga. Si un hijo de puta le robaba dinero a mi me tocaba pagar los platos. Si un hijo de puta le montaba verga, yo no comía por unos días. Como que yo era el que tenía la culpa. Cuando un hijo de puta la dejaba por otra ella se ponía a verga y yo aguantaba la ira de sus vergueras. Hasta tuve que aguantar a un hijo de puta pedrastra que ella había llevado a la casa en calidad de marido. Después de una mierda así uno no es igual, uno no queda bien. Hay que cobrar. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Creía que podía vivir en paz con estas mierdas. Y cuando una cipota, la más hermosa que había visto en mi vida me enseño cariño yo decía que iba encontrar paz. El día que le pedí que se casar estaba tan nervioso. No era por decir algo tonto sino que me dijera no. No creo que podía aceptar el rechazo. Pero no me dijo que no. Me dijo que si. Por un tiempo parecía que todo iba estar bien. No tenia que vivir con resentimientos contra mi nana. Pero después empezaron las mierdas. Primero con un cerote medio chaparro con complejo de napoleón. Me dijo que solo era un amigo. Le creo. Ya que no me consta que era mas que una amistad. Después la vi de manos con un maldito en el centro. Baboso joven con cara de mujeriego. Mi peor pesadilla se había realizado, me había casado con mi madre. Varias personas me han dicho que la han visto salir del oso. Maldita. Malditos los hijos de puta que me lo dijeron. Yo se que me hacen burla a mis espaldas por ser tan callado y sumiso. Puta todo esto es culpa mía, por dejarme. Pero eso va cambiar. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Esto empezó a cambiar desde que pase un día por la tienda donde venden armas. Ahí me enamore. Y no de la india que estaba en el mostrador. Era perfecta. Era brillante, cromada, con un mango de hule. .38 revolver. Perfecta. Cuando pregunte el precio me decidí casarme con ella. Una vez que la tuve en mis manos ya no sentía el temor de siempre. Ahora podía cobrar. Ahora podía hacer las cosas cabales. Yo y mi nuevo amor. Solo faltaba una noche como esta y unos cilindros y una media de muñeco. Primero esta ramera que dice ser mi esposa, después mi nana, después mi tata, después…no se. Después no me importa. Hay voy a ir caminando y ajustando. Lo que necesitamos ahorita es otro traguito y quizás un cigarro. Nunca e fumado pero me siento como que es necesario. Con esta empiezo, pero antes un cigarro y un trago.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD">(Fin de la velada)</span></i><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> La rockola tomo su tiempo pero encontró el próximo disco que marcar. La guitarra gitana comienza con una melodía rápida y luego la voz de Camilo Sesto empieza a enamorar la memoria de una linda mujer desplazada por la situación de su país o tierra, su nombre seria Melina. La noche se manifestaba como cualquier otra en un país lleno de falta de valores, donde el liqour había reemplazado a la fe y realidad, donde para los que saben vivirla la vivirán haciendo mal. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Samuel estaba harto de su puta vida como lo decía en sus propias palabras. Solía decir que el no podía vivir como hombre por lo tanto la muerte siempre lo reconoce como tal, sin importar como vivió. Empino su cerveza que tenia un sabor exageradamente bueno, como la mejor cerveza que sus labios han conocido. Su miedo no existía. Su ira se iba. Su paz al fin llego, por enfrentar su destino y abrazarlo con lujuria, amor y sin reservas. Se sentía bien dejar el molde de indio temeroso y ser, aunque sea por sus últimas par de horas, un hombre como cualquiera. Como nació y como iba a morir. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Roberto termino sus plegarias y se quedo mirando el suelo y de reojo miraba la mano del calvo. Tenía miedo. No pensaba en Quique, solo en lo que le esperaba una vez se levantaba de esta mesa. Miraba las botellas, la de él aun sin un trago tomado. Nunca pensó que así iba terminar por pensar, por ideas. Ni pensó que esa noche iba ser su último trago. Que amargo resulto ser. Igual que la primera vez que se empino una botella de guaro. Si la última vez con su viejo no lo mataron, esta vez estaba difícil que alguien lo salvara. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Mientras las ultimas ideas pasaban por las mentes de los hombres, nadie noto que entra por la puerta un hombre que se ve fuera de lugar, fuera de la alegría aunque sea ficticia pero ni eso tenia. Entra y mira a su alrededor. En el aire Camilo Sesto grita de ojos grises…<i>alza tus manos hacia Dios…</i>el hombre toma el ritmo de la canción y empieza a cantar. Se dirige al bar que esta detrás de la mesa de Roberto y Samuel. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> –Dame una pilsener.- le dice a la mujer en el mostrador. Se la sirve y con gusto de sexo el hombre se la empina. Mira hacia el otro lado del salón. Ya sabe para donde se va dirigir. Pero primero un último cigarro. Enciende un delta y medio tose por que es vicio que es aprendiz. Termina la canción en la rockola. No hay sonido de la rockola. No hay más canciones que pidieron. En un momento empezara a tocar una canción al azar para incentivar un bolo con monedas que le hacen estorbo en la bolsa. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> El hombre se empina una última vez la cerveza y la pone en el mostrador con peso de su mano. El sonido agarra la atención de algunos cerca de ahí incluyendo al calvo. El hombre con camisa de vestir por fuera se dio vuelta. En la rockola comenzó la melodía de violines y la voz de Roberto Jordán empezaba su ofrenda de sentimientos al amor de estudiante. El hombre empezó a caminar hacia la mesa con la mujer y los 4 hombres. Su mano haciendo camino a su cintura donde su nuevo amor viajaba lista para probar su amor a su amo. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> La mujer se empinaba un vaso de cerveza ni noto la figura que hacia su camino hacia la mesa. Entre el humo de cigarros y los alientos a pilsener ella buscaba su candidato de lujuria y poco a poco miro la cara saltar de la oscuridad y el humo. Una cara que mil veces la había visto con puro y completo amor ahora estaba en frente de ella sin piedad y sin miedo a perderla. ¿Como iba apaciguar a su tontito esta vez? ¿Se podía hacer tal cosa esta vez? Era el pero no era el como lo recuerda y como lo dejo esta mañana. Su blusa estaba abierta un poco mas de lo que lo había permitido en frente de el. Sus senos resaltaban. Y ahora las emociones la abandonaban a ella y estaba confundida, tenía miedo y tenia remordimiento. Pero lo que le salio era una pequeña risa de niña mala que la agarran con las manos en la masa. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> <i>…Es otoño, los amantes ya se fueron…las hojas de los árboles cubren el campo… sus voces amorosas ya no se escuchan…el verano ya se fue…mi amor de verano… mi primer amor… amor de estudiante… ya se termino…vendrán otros veranos…vendrán otros amores… pero siempre en mi ser vivirá… mi amor de verano mi primer amor…<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> El hombre se quedo parado mirando la mujer que juro amar en riqueza y en pobreza, para bien, para mal. Las lagrimas empezaban a acumularse pero para esta hora empezaron a ser detenidas por los sentimientos que se encontraban en su mano con la revolver calibre .38 cromada que lentamente se iba alzando. Los 4 hombres en la mesa empezaron hacer su escape y la mujer se quedaba en su puesto. Sus ojos encadenados a los ojos del hombre con la pistola en su mano. El martillo de la pistola le pega a la bala y los senos medio visibles de la mujer explotaban con una lluvia de chispas de sangre. Una y otra vez los disparos alumbraban el salón oscuro mientras el hombre hacia cara de odio y la mujer bailaba con los impactos en su pecho y la sangre bañaba los alrededores. En el fin se quedo el mismo oscuro y la mujer se quedo mirando los ojos de el hombre que la mato y quien ella había jurado amar. El hombre tomo su arma se dio vuelta en el caos que se había armado y empezó su éxodo por donde entro. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> <i>…Mi primer amor…<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Los balazos hicieron saltar a Roberto que solo miraba la botella en frente de él. No sabia que estaba pasando y por un segundo muy cortó pensó que quizás estaba muerto o herido. Miro a su lado y miro que el calvo estaba sacando su pistola y mirando hacia un hombre parado y de donde la muchedumbre estaba corriendo. Los gritos eran tangibles y hacían los pelos de la espalda levantarse. Samuel estaba parado y con instinto Roberto tomo la cerveza llena que tenia en frente con su mano de modo alrevez. El calvo no vio la botella que termino explotando en la espalda de su cabeza abriendo una fuga de sangre. Roberto en ese momento agarro la segunda botella de donde el calvo estaba tomando y se aseguro el sueño que el matón iba a tener. El calvo callo al suelo medio conciente aun. Roberto tomo la botella de Samuel y abrió camino hacia el baño donde Quique había estado cagando grueso sin duda. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -¡VENITE!- le grito Roberto a Samuel sin miedo que el calvo se iba a levantar. Samuel se bajo al suelo y le dio vuelta al calvo y le quito la escuadra quitándole el cargador. Saco la bala que estaba en la recamara. Y aventó el cargador y la bala al caos que se había armado. Tomo la pistola y empezó a descargar la ira dentro de el. Una y otra vez golpeando el rostro del calvo. De seguro le quito un par de dientes. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Camino al baño Roberto miraba entre el caos y con tiempo encontró al indio perdido en la política. El indio escuadrón de la muerte estaba mirando hacia donde venia un hombre caminando acomodándose su revolver en su cintura. Eso fue lo último que vio ya que Roberto sembró la botella de cerveza que era de Samuel en la cabeza del matón. Callo al suelo sin incidente más. El hombre con camisa de vestir por fuera camino mirando brevemente a Roberto quien lo miro también. Después el hombre con el revolver en su cintura desapareció en el caos y la noche. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Roberto tomo impulso cuando le dio una patada a la puerta del baño y vio a Quique sorprendido por la bulla y el susto de la puerta abriéndose tan abruptamente. Roberto lo miro por un segundo como regaño por dejarlos. Lo tomo del pelo y lo jalo. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -¡CAMINA PEDAZO DE CULERO MAL PARIDO, QUE NOS VAMOS A </span><st1:personname productid="LA MIERDA"><span lang="ES-TRAD">LA MIERDA</span></st1:personname><span lang="ES-TRAD">!- Le grito Roberto mientras lo jalaba buscando a Samuel. Samuel estaba todavía por la mesa. No podía ver muy bien ya que estaba como arrodillado. Roberto pensó lo peor creia que había recibido un impacto o un cuchillazo. Camino hacia la mesa para luego buscar la salida. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Samuel le estaba sacando mas sangre de la cara al matón que a estas alturas estaba bastante inconciente. Una y otra vez le pegaba con el culo de la pistola en el rostro. Solo que casi no se miraba el rostro por toda la sangre. Quique y Roberto le agarran un brazo cada uno gritándole para que despierte del sueño de ira loca en que estaba. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -¡Samuel! ¡Ya deja esa mierda los quílios ya van a venir y si nos encuentran aquí nos va llevar putas! Quique le grita y peleando con Samuel y su fuerza irosa. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -¿QUERES IR A UN AVENTON HIJO DE TU PUTA MADRE? DECIME COMO SE SIENTE AHÍ HIJO DE PUTA, COMO SE SIENTE EN ESE LUGAR DONDE ESTAS. ¿TENES MIEDO MALDITO?, ¡AHÍ NO ESTA TU PISTOLA PARA SALVARTE PERRO! ¡AHÍ NO ESTA TU QUERIDO MAYOR CULERO DE MIERDA! AHÍ SOLO ESTA </span><st1:personname productid="LA MUERTE Y"><st1:personname productid="LA MUERTE"><span lang="ES-TRAD">LA MUERTE</span></st1:personname><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Y</span></st1:personname><span lang="ES-TRAD"> EL DIABLO QUE TE ESPERA CON EL INFIERNO MALDITO. ¿¡ COMO SE SIENTE!? . ¿¡ COMO SE SIENTE!? ¡HIJO DE PERRA ESPERO QUE TE HAGAS NIDO DE GUSANO EN EL INFIERNO!- Samuel le grita con la pasión de un hombre loco. A sus lados Roberto y Quique pelean con el para controlarlo y hacer su escape. Samuel le tira una escupida al calvo que esta en el suelo y le cae donde estaba el rostro. En realidad el matón no aguanto los golpes de ira. Estaba muerto. Al fin domaron a Samuel y hicieron camino hacia el chevrolet viejo de Roberto. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><i><span lang="ES-TRAD">(Afuera)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Los tres amigos se metieron al carro en seguida. Roberto tomo las llaves y lo encendió. Con un rugido de un león viejo pero aun vivo y muy orgulloso el carro cobro vida. Gritaron las llantas y el camino se abrió. En la avenida se vio que iban en camino la policía. Ninguno dijo nada estaban callados. Todo el ruido era hecho por el motor y los corazones de cada uno que no paraban de latir con odio. Roberto manejando Quique a su lado y Samuel atrás. Samuel miraba la noche de San Salvador. Se miraba diferente. Se miraba de otro modo. El había recibido lo que pidió. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> Quique iba mirando el suelo del carro. Roberto y Samuel vieron que buscaba algo pero nadie tenia el aliento de preguntar ni querían saber. Por lo menos eso pensaba. Al fin Roberto pregunto. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -¿Que putas buscas?- Roberto toma su mirada del camino por un segundo. Después Quique se sienta recto con una sonrisa en su rostro. Y con su mano derecha levanta la botella de smirnoff que temprano habían comprado. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:36.0pt;text-align:justify;tab-stops:36.0pt"><span lang="ES-TRAD"> -¡Dame es mierda!- Samuel le quita la botella de la mano a Quique. Lo abre como que fuera la cura del cáncer. Samuel se empina la botella. Roberto extiende su mano y Samuel le da la botella y toma un trago. Quique termina el círculo. Roberto piensa en la mirada del hombre con el revolver. Toma una vez más la botella y se la empina. Dios se hace presente para todos. No solo en el escalón. La mirada del hombre le cruza la mente a Roberto una vez más. Una vez más se empina la botella y se la pasa a Samuel. Sonríe. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-55840020454619573822009-08-24T16:03:00.000-06:002009-08-24T16:08:48.408-06:00Story of a drunk told through a few songs<p style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; tab-stops: .5in" class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">(A Well Respected Man…The Kinks)<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">The lights were bright just like in Vegas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He remembered his trip to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" /><st1:city><st1:place>Las Vegas</st1:place></st1:City>, it was just great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Vegas was the first time in his life he paid more attention to other things than drinking, even though the drinks were free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Wow, free drinks, and he didn’t use that to his full potential.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Anyways the lights, they were bright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For some reason he just laid there, and looked at these lights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His eyelids were heavy so was his body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He was so tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He closed his eyes.</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>It was the good old days again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He was waking up on a Sunday morning with a terrible hangover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He felt someone’s presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was his old friend from the high school days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The bastard had gone into the navy and since it was the holidays he was home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What the hell is he doing in my room on a Sunday morning?</span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“Let’s go man.”</span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1"> </span>“Dude I just went to bed.” Aramis says.</span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">“I don’t give a damn; I’m only here for 2 weeks. C’mon you’re wasting good drinking time.”</span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">“It’s Sunday morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I usually wait till Sunday afternoon.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Aramis has the intention to cover himself up.</span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Lets go to IHOP and have some breakfast, and then we will see where the day will take us.”</span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">Aramis could feel the half bottle of Smirnoff he had drank the night before coming up on him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was <st1:time minute="0" hour="9">9 am</st1:time> and he had gone to be at around <st1:time minute="0" hour="5">5 am</st1:time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He was not at his best at this moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well it was free breakfast, why not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Let me get ready.”</span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Hurry up I got Ramiro waiting in the car, he is hung over too.”</span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">What a bastard, Aramis thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well he is a friend, a good friend at that, so he might as well make the best of his time before he has to go back to the base.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">Before he knew it, it was <st1:time minute="0" hour="21">9pm</st1:time> and 12 hours had gone by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They had gone to have breakfast at IHOP.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then they made their way to where Navy boy had been partying all night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then they went downtown to Hooters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For a while it was pitcher after pitcher after pitcher of beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then at about <st1:time minute="0" hour="17">5 pm</st1:time> they made their way back to their neighborhood and went to the Hooters there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">Navy boy was driving his brother’s truck which was pretty cool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The problem is that Navy boy lost track of time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This was not good because his brother was a cop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So by 9 pm when they were stumbling out of Hooters close to their home his older brother was about to put out a APB for a stolen ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was <st1:time minute="0" hour="21">9pm</st1:time> when they dropped Aramis off at his mother’s house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">It felt like it was later, he thought it was at least <st1:time minute="0" hour="0">midnight</st1:time>, but it was only <st1:time minute="40" hour="21">9:40pm</st1:time>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He regretted this type of thing, stumbling in while someone is awake in the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The worst scenario would be that his mother should happen to have guest over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>No, the worst would be that the guest would be from her church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Aramis’ mother was a kind and forgiving woman, but the people at her church were the typical self-righteous ass holes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-family:arial;">Let’s have a smoke while we deliberate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Should we or should we not go in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Well we can’t stay outside all night in the front yard in the cold, swaying back and forth with no wind. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Aramis gets his wit and goes towards the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>On the first try he lands the key in the key hole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He opens the door, no one in the living room, not this one, but he could hear the noise in the other living room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His mother did have some guests in the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He quickly made his way towards the kitchen to get a glass of water to take with him; he is going to need it tomorrow or later that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He gets to the refrigerator door and gets a cup fills it with ice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He goes to the valve that dispenses cold water and puts his cup at an angle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>No head he thinks as if it was a tap of beer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He giggles to himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The cup is at a weird angle and as he fills up the cup with water he also gets sprayed with cold water on his crotch, he doesn’t notice it though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">Aramis was about over flow the cup when he felt the presence of someone behind him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Please let it be Navy boy and not one of his mother’s guests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He slightly turns his head backwards and tries to move his eyes more that his neck allows, or at least more than his drunkenness can allow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He suddenly realizes that he has been singing a song; he is softly mumbling “A well respected man”, just like the typical drunk stumbling home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">He turns around and sees a real pretty girl, he has seen her before when he used to go to church, but he couldn’t place her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She on the other hand had placed her sight on the big wet stain on his crotch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Suddenly Aramis feels the cold wet feeling on his crotch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He turns around and starts to stumble back to the hallway leading to his room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He is heading for the door of his room when he suddenly as if he was not in control of his motor skills, he breaks to the right turns on the light lifts up the toilet lid and promptly pukes his guts out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">Aramis didn’t realize how loud he was hurling until he raised his head from the toilet and wiped his lips with toilet paper as if his face and ass had switched places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He flushed the toilet and struggled to get up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He must have been barfing really loud because when he managed to turn around and wipe the tears from his eyes because of the effort of puking; his eyes focused and he had an audience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The pretty girl still looking at his crotch, her parents looking at his crotch and some particles of puke on his face and his mother who was sad with embarrassment, they were all there to have a look at the perfect picture of the drunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">Aramis tried to make some words form, and all he could get out was:</span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Hey brother Venegas, how is church?”</span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">Aramis didn’t wait for a response and he walked towards his room, they opened a path for his drunken stumble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Brother Venegas’ wife put her arm around Aramis’ mother as if to give her condolences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Aramis swung his door shut and in the dark aimed for his bed as he let himself go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Another perfect day”, Aramis says on his way to oblivion. On his way down to his bed he passes out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">It felt like a train had marked its rails across Aramis’ head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His stomach was in pain as well as the rest of his body, but stomach and head what he felt the most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He walked into the kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was Monday so thank God no one was home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He went for a grape juice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He went back to his room with his body lamenting the activities the day before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He is highly dehydrated and slams the grape juice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">It’s only a few minutes before the stomach does the bureaucracy and rejects the juice, so, déjà vu, Aramis runs into the bathroom again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The dark color drink comes up just as he had sent it down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>After that distasteful greeting by his body, Aramis stands there and looks at the bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He seems to remember something but it’s too faint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He can’t really remember. </span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">He goes into his room and lies down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He is wondering off to sleep again, he was tired and it had been three days of drinking, when the phone rings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was Navy boy’s mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She was less than happy and asked what had happened the night before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She told Aramis that Steve wanted to talk to him later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This was a real drag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Steve was Navy boy’s older brother, owner of the truck that they had been using and also, and more importantly, a cop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Somehow after Navy boy had come over to his house at 9 am; drug him out of bed, drove him all over town, paid for everything, it was now Aramis’ fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now that was typical.</span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">If the day before was another perfect one, this one was really going to suck. </span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">Suddenly there were no more lights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was dark but he felt he was moving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He was in a car of some sort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He was barely aware of the red lights flashing outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then the car came to a stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Two back doors opened and Aramis could see the night sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He felt so weak; he could not make his chest inflate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>His eyes had gone shut for just a second.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He saw the medics pull the gurney and felt the wheels hit the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p><p style="TEXT-INDENT: 35.3pt; MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Another perfect day” Aramis mumbled as he closed his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></span></p>Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-46594507758291788252008-12-01T12:38:00.002-06:002008-12-01T12:41:44.263-06:00working on itwalking home<br />looking for a dose<br />so unhappy with you<br />guided away<br />embracing hate<br />it's all the same to you<br /><br />uninvited guest<br />sporting sunday best<br />it's a laugh to all of you<br />somewhere he fits<br />cut glass, broken heart<br />somewhere he is loved tooDrinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-50972478165983978362008-09-20T23:35:00.000-06:002008-09-20T23:36:33.087-06:00The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 5(Vicious… By Lou Reed)<br /> The bar was always more alive with her there. It could be a Tuesday night with no one there but if Kellie was there…that was all that was needed. She was so thin, tall elegant and so very beautiful. She had the face of an angel and the heart of a saint. I never really figured out why she hung out with me. I guess it’s because I was more in love with the booze than pussy. I guess she was tired of every guy that she met wanting to get into her pants just because she liked to drink. She was no slut…but she was out of place here in this bar and especially with me. She was the love that I needed. She was the only person other than my mother that felt sorry for me. She was the only love I had these days. That and my draft beer and shot of Jack Daniels was good enough for me. <br /> I love to look at her from a distance. She is like one of those paintings that you just can’t take your eyes off of. I couldn’t stop looking at her when she was at the juke box looking for something bluesy, something that was rotting the pit of my soul and needed to come out of the bar’s speakers. I see her dial the number for the song she thinks is perfect. She knows how much I like David Bowie but she dials something else, more movable…more danceable. The song starts loud and strong with a steady beat. She straightens up and turns my way. I’m polite and wait for her before slamming my Jack Daniels. She starts making her way towards the table where her drink and I await. She moves her skinny model like hips to the beat. She is just so beautiful. Her jeans, her shirt and her hair all made for this perfect scene. <br /> I didn’t know much about her. She didn’t talk too much about her family or her past. She just existed. That was all I needed. A fellow drunk to be with me at the bar. She never asked me about my past or my family…all she wanted was company and not some asshole trying to fuck her. Or maybe she just wanted someone to sit with at the bar so no other guys would be hitting on her. I guess I did the job although im not a tough guy. I’m a drunk with a beautiful girl sitting with him. Beauty and Drink. At the time she sat down she has a smile on her face which is met by my greatest effort not to bum her out. I smirk so she knows I’m good enough for a few drinks. <br /> The day has been long for me even though I woke up around one in the afternoon. It seemed like 8pm would never roll around to get my fix. At around 6 thirty she had called me right when I was going through the last shakes of my hangover. It was a good thing it is winter time. I couldn’t handle this type of hangover during the summer. My back was on fire and my head was throbbing. The cold helps out a lot. About an hour after she called I’m outside the pad waiting for her with a cigarette in my hand. Its cold but man its good for me. I open the door to her Amigo and hop in. She looks at me with a smile that tells me we are going to get wasted. I return the smile. <br /> So here I am at the bar as per usual and she says to me that it was kind of dead. I agree. She tells me that it was a clear night and that maybe in an effort to save some money we should go by the liquor store and buy some forties and head up to the air port and stare at the landing lights as the planes land. I agree with her. So we pay the drinks and take off.<br /> Once in her car she searches her collection of discs and once we are set with some Lou Reed we are on our way. We hit the Centennial and walk out with 4 forties of malt liquor. It was cheap and it did the trick. It was all we needed. All we needed other than our mutual company. I cant stop thinking about the looks I get when I’m in the liquor store. The typical look that says “what tha fuck is she doing with this looser”. If I was super preoccupied with picking up chicks I would take it as a compliment, but im too hung over to care about it. The teller looks at us when we get to the counter with the same look and Kellie makes it worse by putting her arm around me and pulling me close to her. She smells great. If my mind wasn’t so fucked up desperate for the booze I might of got a hard on by her smell. <br /> Once at the air port or really across the street from the runway we park. It is a clear night and the lights shine bright on the runway. The air is cold and very crisp. We open the windows of the car and start with the first forty. We light cigarettes because nothing is better with cheap booze than a nice Marlboro red. In my drunken haze, the toxins from the night before left behind from a bottle of Smirnoff mixing with the new poison from the St. Ides is making for a great potion in my blood stream. At this moment I am totally content. I have my fix. My company, my music and most importantly my booze. <br /> I don’t know why Kellie and I get along so well. Other than music and booze we have nothing in common. I don’t know how she feels about me but I love her. Not in a “I want to get married” sort of way. I love her because she is my friend and she makes me feel like I’m not a total waste. I feel bad for her though. It almost seems like she is being punished by having to hang out with me. I wish I had something more to offer her, but all I can offer her is my friendship. I’m not as good looking as her, and certainly not as tall as her, and I don’t know if I can protect her if we ever got into any trouble. I don’t question the situation, I’m just happy to be around someone so beautiful on the inside as well as the outside.<br /> <br /> Aramis talks to his beautiful friend in the car and watch the night and planes go by. They laugh while Lou Reed plays. Aramis doesn’t know it but this will be the last time he is out with Kellie. They laugh at the stupid jokes made by one or the other. They enjoy each others company. A couple of spaces away another car parks. Neither Kellie nor Aramis notice the car or the three men inside. <br /> <br /> The night was crisp as well was the aluminum bat that hit me across my back. All I could hear was a bunch of yelling. I could make out the words “Quit IT!” being screamed. It was Kellie’s voice. She was being held back. All I could see was a blur. These bastards really ruined my night. I had just opened my second forty. I try to cover my head from the kicks that are breaking air all around my ears. They somehow seem to hit me everywhere at once. I try to roll around and catch a punch near my right eye, which pushes me into some broken glass from the forty I dropped when they pulled me out of the car. The side of my face is pierced by the glass. Then I catch a boot near my chin and lower lip. I thought I was out at this point but then the last thing I felt was a kick right in the mouth of my stomach. I groan, I cough and spit out some blood. I hear some last words being screamed at me by one of the bastards. Then I’m out. <br /> One of the men from the car was trying to keep Kellies attention on his words. She kept trying to break free from his grip. Her tears ruined her makeup. She was scared that she couldn’t look but at the same time wanted to get the other two men off of Aramis. She screamed many times for them to leave him alone. He wasn’t a big guy and was no match for the two men. Aramis was rolling around trying to cover his head and not take too many hits. <br /> They slammed Aramis’ head on the pavement which by now was stained with his blood. The man holding her and trying to get her to listen to his screaming threats pushed her against the car. Kellie brings one sleeve up to her lips that covered in saliva and tears and wipes. Her eyes set dead on her friend on the ground bleeding. Just then one of the thugs decided he hasn’t had enough and walks over with the bat and rolls Aramis on his back and raises the bat in the air. Kellie reacts and tries to thrust herself to stop him but the other two men hold her. A siren sounds off two chirps and the blue and red lights light up the parking lot. The men make a break towards their car. Kellie makes her way to her knees and puts Aramis head on her lap. She tries to wipe the blood off of his mouth. She caresses his head. He is the closest thing she has come to love in quite some time. Not the kind of love that makes a boyfriend but the kind that cant be explained but you know will last. The police walk up to her and make her put her hands in the air. They frisk her and then check the vitals on Aramis. The three men are burning up the road as they speed away.Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-81655215483707807462008-09-20T22:55:00.002-06:002008-09-20T23:06:13.389-06:00A PrayerA soldier kneels only before God, his maker, his guide the only one who can forgive him for his sins. The only one who can see and hear him cry. God is his only comfort.<br /><br />"My father, I come to you alone,<br />As you brought me into this world,<br />My soul and heart belong only to you<br />As you are my father, my maker<br />I surrender my sword and loyalty only to you<br /><br />" On this battle's eve<br />I seek your guidence and love<br />Your protection,<br />Your hand to sheild me<br /><br />"Walk with me into battle<br />Be by my side,<br />Let my eyes see no fear<br />Let my heart feel only victory<br /><br />"Guide my steps foward<br />Never into retreat<br />Show me my destiny<br />Let me not fear it<br /><br />"Let me not lament the blood spilled<br />Be it my enemy's<br />Be it mine<br />Let my sword strike true<br />Until my enemy's heart beats no more<br /><br />"Be I alive at the end of battle<br />Let me not fight another<br />Be I dead,<br />Give me peace and forgivness<br />Wash the blood stained on my soul<br /><br />"Remember your son<br />Save your servant<br />Bless him now and in Darkness<br />Embrace him at your gates<br />Dry his tears and heal his sorrow<br /><br />"In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit<br />AMEN"Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-40997085666599267782008-04-05T17:09:00.000-06:002008-04-05T17:10:01.081-06:00Bad things happen in AprilApril, its no surprise…<br />Abandonment, no surprise<br />Tears for you, while Im alone<br />Not the person you said to be<br />Not the person I thought<br /><br />Wake now, and see reality<br />Today, your free, you’re free<br />Make up, and dress up<br />Before your tears betray you<br />Before you see hell unleash<br /><br />Sing, for all of us<br />A song on your birthday to smile<br />Sadness is around in the cold<br />You can tell yourself<br />“I can live through this”<br />I hope your wisdom helps you believe<br /><br />Who is that talking<br />Who is that crying…<br />Keep your back turned<br />It’s not worth your wild…It’s not worth your fire<br />Take your pieces, laugh and run<br />You havnt seen it all, little girls first<br /><br />I say come back, keep your life on track<br />I’m not scared to melt and burn this way<br />Been here before, going there again,<br />This is really gonna happen, it’s happening now<br />Take your love and run<br />Your tears are falling for wasted time<br />Take your life and run…Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-83361516155691352122008-03-27T02:25:00.004-06:002011-11-18T15:48:02.512-06:00<span style="font-size:180%;" ><strong><em>Mad Laughs and Clown Hats</em></strong></span><br />The room is cold but I’m not aware<br />I’m falling down a mole hole and having tea on the way<br />I don’t bother to look around<br />Everywhere clowns in top hats laughing<br />All the way down it’s so bright it might as well be dark<br />At the end salted seas of rabid teeth wait<br />The room is cold, but I’m not here<br />I’ve been talked to but I can’t find to understand<br />If I’m sick I don’t know it<br />If I’m in love I don’t feel it<br />If I crossed the line and I’m here<br />Which is there, I bid you farewell<br />It makes no difference to me<br />Come out and play<br />Regain your faith<br />Come a little farther to see some pain<br />Don’t be scared of top hats and mad laughs<br />Feeling what you imagine tastes like grapes<br />Through the looking glass and maybe back<br />With help or not<br />The room is cold but I don’t care<br />I’m lost in darkness so bright I’ve lost my eyes<br />I’ve burned to stone and melted into fire<br />No one finds a use for me<br />I close my eyes as the clowns sing lullabies of the grave<br />When I wake they will laugh again<br />I will still be falling<br />I will still not be here<br />And I will have some teaDrinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-70344476247721000202008-03-11T14:57:00.002-06:002008-03-11T15:09:38.224-06:00The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 4(Long Long Long…By George Harrison)<br /> <br /> In the haze of the vodka, and the perfectly still apartment Aramis sat alone on his couch. His apartment looking pathetic, a perfect reflection on his life. This is all that ever became of the money he spent on the booze. A drunken haze, not knowing what is real and what is not. <br /> The White Album by the Beatles, it was a way to travel to a time he didn’t live in but believed he knew what it was all about. Stale music to sooth his soul. It was hell to be in this place, just when alcohol gets you numb you understand that you don’t want to be numb. The room seems far away and through his mind he can make out the words sung by George Harrison. It’s such a soft song but yet it hurts so much. A lost love found again, but the fact that it was lost for so long makes the mood become overwhelm by sadness. He looks at his at his apartment as a reflection of his life.<br /> <br /> <em>A rummy? Every kid dreams of living like this.</em><br /> <br /> In his mind he can see pictures of the old country, family that he has, looking at him with sincerity. Looking at him with compassion. He opens his eyes and it seems that from the curtins he can see someone staring at him with somewhat disgust. His head wobbles and it dosent look like he is going to make it off this couch not right now anyway and certainly not on his own. It seems like it has been 12:44 in the am for a long time. Things are going so slow. Aramis doesnt remember this song being so long, despite the name it has. It was alright though he liked it. <br /> His eyes close once again. The life in the old country comes to him in flashes of a childhood. Two parents that had all the right intentions of making a family in the traditional sense. Something went wrong with the plan, and now he was cursed. He tries to open his eyes and sees a little boy in front of him there in the apartment, looking at him with icy eyes of wonder. He looks so familiar. His breathing has slowed down considerably. He opens his eyes and there is no boy. He must be dozing off. The boy was never there, he thinks, as he looks on, the face is back at the curtains. <br /> Someone is fighting outside. The yelling is getting awful loud but he is unmoved. Aramis can’t move his body, its way too heavy. To anyone else this would be alarming, but he had been here before. Many times he had been here. He wanted so bad not to be drunk, but to be a child again and be in the arms of his mother, warm and safe. He missed the loving touch of a mothers hand. He missed all the things he was denied. A family, the ability to love, a life. The boy is back and between the curtiains he sees a face turning into blood but he can’t be afraid. It’s too tiring. The face is melting into blood slush and he can hear the pounding on the window. Some one is really fighting outside. <br /> <br /> <em>He wasn't joking when he said that he wasnt going to get up by himself from this couch. Things have gone too far. He wasnt expecting this when he signed on, but it was in the contract. </em><br /> <br /> Now Aramis had his eyes closed and they werent opening yet he could see himself laying on the couch. He was in front of himself looking, and next to him the little boy who now was crying. He didnt wimper but the tears would not stop flowing. A splash of blood on the window between the curtians and the pounding was now on the door. Then there he was looking from the couch again at the little boy looking at him. His eyes shifted and he saw his older brother sitting indian style next to the coffee table looking down at some CDs. On the coffee table the gun sat. Aramis wanted to move, but couldnt. The boy staring at him. His eyes filled with sadness. The boy looked down at the Aramis’ side. The vomit was yellow and all over the couch. There was a bottle of pills open and bunch of blue pills spilled on the couch with the vomit, some on the floor. His brother now was still, sitting there Indian style looking at the floor with his head bowed. Then the blood started to flow out of his mouth. It wouldn’t stop. He could hear the sirens now, and the pounding at the door finally broke. He slumped over with the dead weight and closed his eyes laying on the vomit. In his right hand the phone with no dial tone.<br /> The guitars crescendo and the sirens end the song.Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-46932147792017504232008-03-11T14:44:00.002-06:002008-03-11T14:56:54.532-06:00The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 3(Babylon…Don Mclean version)<br /><br /> (The banjo starts to play in his head, the song is Babylon the Don Mclean version off the American Pie album.)<br /> <br /> Aramis stood there in his drunken haze. The night was not helping his mood. He took out his Zippo and as he swayed in his drunken state he lit his cigarette. He put away the Zippo into his shirt pocket. He let out a big sigh which could not be distinguished between being drunk or a memory that haunted him, giving him no rest. He bent down and picked up the bottle of bourbon that he had picked out only an hour ago. He stood there in the dark and he looked down towards the grave marker. On the marker the name of his older brother the memory that never lets him get on with his life. The eternal sorrow, the everlasting reason to cry. He swigged back a drink of the bourbon. His face fixed on the stone with the expression of ‘what are we going to do now?’<br /> -<em>Why do we always come here? Do you know this person or what?</em> The shadow behind Aramis asked and lit a cigarette. His voice was frustrated. It was obviously not his idea of a night out and having a few drinks. Who does that at a graveyard?<br /> -<em>You wanted to drink didn’t you? Well here have a drink and shut the fuck up.</em> He passed his bottle to the figure behind him. <em>We come here cause I’m fucking tired of them trendy New York wannabe bars. I’m tired of all them ass holes that go there. You know me I can’t stand fucking yuppies.</em> The figure has taken a swig and passes back the bottle. Aramis takes the bottle and swigs it. He takes a long drag of his smoke. All of them fuckers going to the fucking bar to talk up their lives to bimbos. <em>All of them wearing the same fucking Texas A and M cap. I’m tired of that shit. </em> He pauses. <em>Yeah, I know this person.</em> He points at the marker and takes another swig. <br /><br /><br /> -<em>What this fucker doesn’t know is that this is where my brother is buried. I’m really not liking the current bar scene. The girls are good to look at and maybe take back to the apartment but its hell talking to those no brain bitches. I hate this place as well. I don’t know why I come here. I just end up here. I’m always called back here by something. I just can’t seem to forget that whole ordeal. I was young. I miss him terribly. I miss my mom as well but I can’t go to her in this state. Just like him before he ended up here. None of this was suppose to happen, but it did, and I can’t find the way out.<br /></em><br /> Life was a tedious torture for Aramis. When your fourteen you’re not wanting to go to church and be under the watch of your mother, no matter how nice of a lady she is. That’s what makes things harder, and you think your mom is nice to you so you will feel like a total ass when you do some bad shit. It’s all part of her plan to fill you with remorse for the evil stuff you do. <br /> His brother was another story. He was 21 and he knew it. Aramis wanted desperately to live that life. Girls, nightlife, a few drinks all that stuff. Jr. High was another pain in the ass. Everyone telling you what you can’t do. Aramis really was getting scared that life was going to turn out to be a bunch of rules of things you couldn’t do.<br /> It was one night that Aramis got to go out with one of his friends when it all went to hell. Being fourteen was hell, but it was about to get worse. When he got home he got into the shower. When he came out his mother and his then step father where putting on their shirts and making their way out the door. The words were:<br /> -<em>Your brother has been hurt in an accident take care of your sister.</em> <br /> He didn’t think much of this. A broken leg maybe. Within the next 24 hours he found himself looking at his mother in front of his brother’s casket with her face in her hands. It hurt him to see his mother like that. It hurt and scared him to look at his dead brother in the casket. He slowly began to break within. Everything that meant being fourteen didn’t matter now. This was going to be for the rest of his life and he knew that. <br /> The older brother had been drinking for two days straight. He had made his way to his aunt’s house to where he had a key. Aramis mother would get angry when her older son would come home drunk. Her sister Oti had given Aramis’ older brother a key to the house. The house was alone when he arrived that afternoon. They say that he was way over the legal drunk limit. He placed a neatly written letter on the kitchen table and sat down on the couch which was near the stereo. He put on his favorite songs. He drank his last drinks. Some hours later he stood in the middle of the room and blew his brains out. It was almost 3 hours later when Oti came home and heard from outside the sounds of her nephew’s music. A smile came to her face that was quickly erased. <br /> She came to the front door and saw the blood seeping out from the bottom. The bags she had in her hands fell to the ground. She opened the door and screamed when she saw her nephew on the floor with blood pouring out of his mouth. He looked as if he had tried to look for a comfortable position to sleep but didn’t quite find it. The CDs on the floor covered in blood. The booze on the coffee table neatly capped off. The gun just out of his reach on the floor also drenched in blood, his shirt covered as well. <br /> Oti fell to the floor and stared ghastly at the scene. She crawled towards him to see if he was still with life. As soon as she touched him she saw he was cold. She picked up his head and more blood spurted out. The screams finally got the attention of the neighbors. Then the sirens came. When the paramedics pulled her away from her nephew which she loved like her own son, Aramis’ mother was on her way. Oti was drenched in blood and in shock. <br /><br /> -<em>My mom had left the Catholic Church when she left the old country. She became a southern protestant Christian. I remember when they brought that box into the church that my brother had never set foot in when he was alive. All I could remember was the song that they sang. “By the waters of Babylon we lay down and wept for the, Zion.” I don’t know if they meant Zion as a land, a nation, an ideal, or what.</em> <br /> <em>For me the waters have become tears mixed with booze. Tears of me, mom, Oti, my brother. All that blood and there was no life. All that and there was no answer to why he did it. There were blames between my uncles. They all blamed my mom. I didn’t. I blamed myself. I was caught up in my shitty little world, only thinking of myself and not thinking of anything else. I was complaining over bullshit, my hair, my social life, not having the clothes that I wanted. I don’t know what his problem was, but it must have been bad. Zion, or what I wept for was the idea of my older brother and having a family. <br /> This is where I come to lay down and weep for my Zion. I have my booze, and here I weep when no one can see me. At this grave at night I weep for my Zion.<br /></em><br /> Aramis looks out towards the night and darkness, nothing there, nothing in him but a lot of booze, a void inside a void. The song ends and he throws the cigarette and makes his way towards his car. The friend in the shadows follows puffing on his smoke. Time to erase this; for the millionth time.Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-16181674294184392292008-02-09T23:06:00.000-06:002008-02-09T23:07:36.772-06:00The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs 2(REM What's the Frequency Kenneth?)<br /><br /> If the walk to the car was bad, then the car itself was the last level of hell. All he could see in his mind was a glass of water and some nice pieces of ice. He could see his hand going to one of them fancy refrigerators with the stainless steel doors and that hole where ice and cold water are dispensed. His Honda accord would take a while before it would produce the nice cold air conditioning that his chest, back and head longed for. In fact it would punish him first with a blast of stale hot air accumulated all morning. It wasn't till this point that he noticed that he had walked out of the house in his sandals. As he looked down the sweat was beading up on his forehead. A whole bottle of vodka and all that beer before hand, now how had that happened? Just then the air conditioner started to give hints of crisp cold air. The radio starts up with the electric guitar and the voice of Michael Stipes asking Kenneth about the frequency. <br /> The drive was that of a typical shitty day. Every red light between the apartment and the beer store was caught by our hurting subject. The only solace was that the AC was good, he could wait. Once at the store he remembered it was Saturday so obviously every fucker turning 21 on this day or having a get together at his house was buying his imports. Corona, Heineken, Dos Equis, Guinness. This just made the super-lifers existence, like Aramis, a real plump painful pimple on the ass. He was there to get what he needed, not what he needed to impress some guest. Of course he wasn't at the liquor store yet he was at his first red light out of 6, but already he was getting agitated. He wasn't really like this; all he needed was a nice cold vodka on the rocks to cool him down. Just thinking of the nice drink calmed down the agitation in his mind and butterflies started in his stomach. It was almost like falling in love for the first time. The fix would save him from the collections agency from last night that pretty soon would be knocking on his forehead in the form of a vengeful hangover. <br /> His worst fears are true when he pulls into the parking lot. There seems to be a lot of cars, more than during the week. He hated going into the beer store like this. He knew how he looked. He looked like a boozer who needed a drink. He only imagined how he smelled to the people present. When liquor is consumed in vast quantities it sort of starts to become a part of your scent. Your pours start to recycle liquor. <br /> -Fucking yuppies.<br /> Aramis couldn't stand them. All of them look exactly the same or they try to look exactly the same. They try to look as if they are a typical beer commercial. All of them walking around with their fake bakes, with their Gucci sun glasses and gap shirts made for the weekend wear. It made him sick to his stomach and in the current condition he could not afford additional pain to his body that longed for the true, sweet, loving and sincere lies of alcohol. It would cure it all away and these yuppies would not be pissing him off so much, in fact they would not matter. <br /> His moves and turns were automatic. Fourth isle on the right side second shelf was where they kept the vodka. Nice, clear and inviting. Then it was a short trip a couple of isles down to where the ice was. He usually didn't buy ice but he imagined that last night he used it all up. Of course with his luck he found himself waiting for a pair of yuppie chicks to make up their mind on how many bags of ice they would take. Geeze, they are fine as hell but this pisses him off. Aramis turns around and goes to where the tall boys are kept and picks up a six pack. He comes back and as if by art of magic the beautiful and stupid girls are gone. He grabs his ice and makes a dash for the counter. <br /> Outside it's the same summer day with the sun beating down but now it's not so bad. Things are looking up. It was back to the apartment to think about what to do with this beautiful Saturday afternoon, alone or who to invite. Maybe he would invite some friends to entertain, just like the yuppies. Aramis was the son of a well off woman. So he couldn't hate the yuppies as much as he made out. His mom was a successful immigrant that wanted a better life for her son. She was as Christian as you can get; not the burn in hell godless heathen type, but the actual type, the ones that forgave to be forgiven. Aramis loved his mom, but loved his lifestyle more…<br /> -Again! Why do you have to bring up old shit?<br /> He knows what he was doing to his mom, and he couldn't stand to see her heart break, but he wanted to live on his own terms. His mom kept on giving him money after he had left home. After he quit calling she kept depositing money in his bank account. He drank more liquor to drown out that feeling of being an ungrateful bastard. At the last red light and he was already feeling sorry for himself and was thinking twice about drinking up a storm this afternoon and into the night. Thoughts of his mother always hurt him. There is a lot of love mixed in with resentments and hate. It's a subject that he has put off for so long that he is not about to sit down right now with pen and paper and try to sort it out. There was no question about it, of course some day he would have to face these problems, but for now he was going to have some drinks and forget everything. It would be a night alone. The thoughts of his mother have shot down his social ability for the night. He needed a shower and a nice tall boy to ease him in for the remainder of the afternoon. Last night would not be paid for in puke and head aches today, maybe the next morning. Maybe. That depended on if he would go and do the same ordeal as today. <br /> -Mr. sandman …bring me a dream…make her the cutest I have ever seen …I don't know about that lots of wavy hair like Liberace line. Kinda gay, won't sing that part. <br /> The song had returned in a different tone to his mind. Indeed the sandman had returned and there was a dream to pass out tonight. There would be a dream, alcohol induced.Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-70516055011412045802008-02-09T23:03:00.000-06:002008-02-09T23:04:55.323-06:00The story of a drunk told through a couple of songs(Mr. Sandman The Cordettes)<br /> <br /> -The guy who is all serious and with his eyes closed, that's me. I always remembered that song from the fifties. The Cordettes. I must have heard it while flipping through the radio. I was into the Beatles, but only the Beatles. The song was catchy but it was not anything I would admit to listening to while my friends were around. Regardless of what I thought it was not a simple pine box that they would put me in. It was more than I expected. I finally got that dream that I asked the sandman for. This dream won't ever end. Just how I wanted it. No one crying, no one making a big drama of it. I look more pale than usual but that's ok. My cheeks are rosy and the nose looks like I could be the head reindeer on Santa's sled. Of course my nose is red. I was the conductor on the RED NOSE EXPRESS. You got to be a drunk to laugh at that one. One final dream with a catchy tune and few folks to say good bye. Im so at piece, I'm serene. This is all I really wanted. Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream. <br /> The Paul bearers carry the casket to the display area. In the casket is the drunk who bought the farm. They gently stop and open the casket and people start to walk by and take a look. People are not so much there to pay respect; they are there to make sure this pest is really dead; to look at a dead body, to be a tourist. It is not so much a funeral as much as a meeting place. They meet to discuss the pain, not of the departed but of the ass hole that made their lives a little more miserable than it should have been. Somehow there is pain that there won't be anymore pain. In the back room of this funeral home the secretary of the business has her clock radio playing softly the jumpy and bubbly tune of the Cordettes. No one seems to hear it. No one alive, that is. People look at the cadaver sit and chit chat about the everyday business. The dead has already been talked about during his life. During his ever present dieing life. Never living, just little by little dying. <br /> -Don't bring that shit up…<br /> The Cordettes finish the song and the attention is placed by all in the room towards a clock radio that does not play anything else. The music has stopped and now it is time to wake up. The sandman dream is over, and the hang over starts here. <br /> Aramis looks up. There are a lot of shadows in his room. It's probably around mid day. Yep it is one in the PM. Good thing his AC hasn't died on him. The summer can be horrible at this time of the day. Especially if the night before assorted amounts of rot gut were part of the intake. The other thing that summer was brutal with was the light that shined through his bedroom window. In the summer the sunlight came right through the window and hit him dead in the face. During the winter there wasn't so much light since it was mostly overcast. To counter the dreaded sunlight some heavy winter blankets that are not used during summer are carefully placed over the window. No light just a bunch of shadows. <br /> -Dreaming. Stupid song. <br /> Aramis doesn't try to remember the night before. Its better not to. People get their feelings hurt when they find out they acted like total dumb ass. Pride can be a difficult father. A difficult dictator. Its better not to ask, not your self not anyone else. If he had made a complete ass of himself he would get the memo soon enough. Friends are nice to have until they start making fun of you or trying to control your life. They are friends, so you gotta deal with them. <br /> There was no moral hangover up to this point maybe it was a night at home. This was getting frequent now. More and more just staying home, cheaper boos, no getting your ass kicked by fuckers you didn't know. Aramis was comfortable with this. The less he spent on other people the cheaper drinking got with him. It was a bitch ending up the night half buzzed and not having enough to close in the proper way. Proper closing consisted of having cab fare, having at least half a bottle but preferably a full one of vodka. A pack of smokes is essential and a well maintained Zippo lighter. <br /> Cab fare is needed so you won't have to drive. The worst thing you want to do is drive when you're drunk. Not cause some dip shit might get hurt but because you don't want to get pulled over and wake up the next day in the drunk tank with some ass holes puke all over you. Worst of all with out a bottle of vodka to calm the shakes down. That is pain.<br /> A full bottle of vodka is necessary preferably with that pouring spout. Usually when you want to close properly you want to have enough of the stuff and that's because when you get hammered your coordination gets thrown off. It's a professional hazard you know. So you are prone to spill a lot. You have some to spill and you have the spout that will prevent too much spillage. It is obvious that you're not going to chug the whole bottle so you don't want to spill the rest once you pass out. The rest will come in handy the next morning. Cigarettes are a must. Even if you don't smoke when you're sober. Keeps you moving and helps you hang in a little longer. The Zippo is not a fancy detail. You loose coordination so you want to have something that will light on the first strike IE the "well maintained Zippo" line. <br /> -If only all the aspects of drinking were this easy to plan. There are other things such as the next morning. The next morning and having to face your pathetic life that you thought you had shed after a few shots at the same fucking bar you always go to. You would think that you would know that your setting yourself up for another illusion. But that's not my problem now. My problem right now is that I don't feel a moral hangover and I don't feel the physical one either. Which means more than likely that I am still more drunk than hung over. Hangovers don't just stop coming. They always come. They always collect. I don't feel the lousy heavy stomach, I don't feel the hot burning sensation in my bones, I haven't started to shake, but make no mistake…last night wont be forgiven. My problem right now is to find that bottle and hope to God that I didn't leave it on the floor pouring itself out. If I did then that means I gotta get out in that sun and go buy my fix. That is an ordeal in itself. My problem at the moment is getting a drink in my belly and taking a shower. <br /> -The worst is when you get delirious and start to hear things and get all fucking jumpy and paranoid. People confuse you with a crack head, but my crack is legal, it's commonly called rot gut. All I can hear is that bullshit song MR. Sandman. It's in my head. Stupid fucking dream. Stupid song. What the fuck?<br /> Someday I'm going to quit. Not today though. Not today. I'll be fine. All I need is a drink and a shower. <br /> Aramis must be becoming a pro because the bottle is neatly on the table with the cap on top. Closed tight. There is a spur of hope for the situation at hand in the mind of Aramis. Then his eyes move slightly down. Yes the bottle is standing neatly on the table, the cap on it tightly closed but the bottle is empty. Maybe a full bottle is not enough, you might need two to close the night properly.<br /> -Damn. Just my fucking luck. Now I gotta get down to the store and buy another bottle to cure myself. I hate the fucking store. FUCK. <br /> Aramis puts on a light shirt and his jeans. He checks for his wallet and the sweat is already building up at his neck soon it will spread. He checks his pockets for some loose cash. It must have been a night in; he had quite a few dollars. More than enough for his fix. He finds his sunglasses and his keys and out he goes. The sun beats down like only in the south. It's not helping his state.Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-59265703762984563252007-12-29T02:00:00.000-06:002007-12-29T02:06:14.574-06:00Hang Over and a Jog"It was saturday morning I can remember that. I remember it was saturday morning because I felt like shit. So that meant the night before was friday and I got my freak on, whatever that means. The thing was that I got lit the night before so it had to been friday because when I woke up I felt like shit which meant it was saturday morning.<br />"I wouldnt say that the hangover or the binge was one for the books but it really put a dent in me and as I tried to get my muscles mobil again and trying to keep my stomach from puking up whatever it was that I ate or drank, I actually made a promise there while my body was in total pain. I promised that I would not drink for the rest of...the month. Who am I kidding the liquor thing has me licked.<br />"I eventually get up and into the shower and things start to look up a little seeing as there is cold water running down my body. Just what this hang over needed some cold water outside the body and inside as well. After Getting out of the shower things seemed to get better and I thought to myself...'It's not such a bad hangover' I mean even my stomach was calming down by this time.<br />"I head downstairs of my very overly priced cheap imitation of a luxury town house and go into the kitchen. Since things after the cold shower were picking up I thought to myself...'I'll skip the alkaseltzer' so I went ahead and got some eggs out and some sausage to make breakfast. I turned on the stove and put in some butter and cooked the eggs. I had not realized how hot the kitchen got when you turned on the stove. I cooked the sausage next and the sweat started to beed at my forehead and on my back. After the sausage was done I put some bread in the toaster and for all my effort went to the fridge and poured myself a nice glass of orange juice.<br />"For a moment I wondered if I had any vodka to make the orange juice into a screw driver but as soon as the thought crossed my head my stomach turned a little. The message was very clear 'Dont you dare throw more of that shit down here', so I put the thought out of my head and avoided looking like a pregnant woman, throwing up in the morning and all. I took my sip and waited for my toast as my eggs and sausage lay neatly in a plate.<br />"The toast comes up. I butter it and pick up my plate and drink and head for the table. I sit down and start to eat. I sudenly notice how much I'm sweating. Its awful hot, after all it is summer. I wonder if the air conditioning is not on. Then I feel a tug in my stomach and something racing up my throat. I get up and run to the rest room. I should have taken the alkaseltzer.<br />"After a few dry heaves I felt pretty sure that the demon was out of me. I got up feeling a little dizzy. For about half a second I thought about finishing my breakfast, but apparently the stomach was closed for business. I could still taste the little bit of orange juice that I had just drank, and then I thought I was going to throw up all over again. I got it under control though. I got some cold water and got the alkaseltzer. Who was I kidding, I wasnt a 17 year old waking up from his first night out drinking.<br />"I went to the living room and sat in a spot that I knew that the air conditioning would hit my face. I drank the seltzer there. I felt like getting in the shower again but that was just a temporary fix. I didnt want to have a little hair of the dog that bit me and putting anything in my stomach was out of the question. So I sat thinking which is not an easy thing when all of your insides want to burst out of your body because of what you put into it the night before.<br />"Suddenly I had a thought. On a previous ocasion in which I was begging for death in exchange for the hangover, I got so desprate that I went to the modern god that has all the answers...the internet. Surely the net would have a cure for a hangover. I went to this page that gave several solutions many of them so repulsive that I would take the hangover. There was one that said that Native Americans in previous centuries when confronted with a hangover situation would run a distance and sweat it all out and then lick the sweat off their arms. At that moment it seemed to be the right thing...the running not licking the sweat off my arms.<br />"Next thing I know I'm in my shorts and at the comunity college campus where they have a running path all around the campus. I was there with my soccer shoes a white shirt and torquios shorts and my sunglasses. It was a hot day and in the distance you could hear the locust sounding off. There were some people getting into their cars with their dogs. This was a popular place to walk your dog and to run. I adjusted my sunglasses and started off.<br />"Right off the bat I started sweating and I could smell the liquor gushing out of my pores. I tried to remember who much I had drank the night before. Im trying to keep a good pace not too fast and not like I'm dieing on my feet. My white shirt was really getting soaked with the hangover sweat...I just hoped that the run would not provoke me to hurl.<br />"I was turning a corner and saw a long straight stretch. On my right side there were some bushes that had grown to eye level. Then through my sunglasses driping with sweat from my forehead in the distance I saw a fine specimen comming towards me. She was really good looking even at the distance that I saw her. She had on black tight running pants and a orange color tank top. I kept my sight up because with every step her breasts bounced. They were not too big but they were noticeable. She had great hair as well that bounced with her speed.<br />"I kept my sight up as we ran at each other and noticed that she was wearing sunglasses. I was surprised I hadn't tripped over a rock or something at this point. I inflated my chest out to look like a bad ass and made more confident strides. As she got closer you could tell she wasnt out here curing a hangover, she was a healthy person. She wasnt a faker like me. Well Im not a total faker there was a time when I was in shape. I started to wonder if I should just smile at her or say hello or something else.<br />"She got closer and I started to panic that I would not take an accurate shot at her. I was trying to think of a line. Things were so much easier in High school. Damn she is almost right in front of me and she looks so good and I can't even find the sylables in my mouth to say 'Hello'.<br />"At that moment I felt a twitching near my right eye. It all happened much faster than how Im talking. The twitch suddenly turned into a little tickle near my eye. Then I realized that a bee or a yellow jacket was trapped inside my sunglasses. I started to loose the coordination in my strides. I started to sway back and forth while I ran. Then I felt a great pain in my upper right cheek near my eye. HOLY GEEZE, that really hurt. I screamed in pain and fell into the bushes and grabed at my face in hysterics trying to get the bee or whatever off my face. I was rolling in pain as the beautiful girl jogged by just looking at me like some weirdo.<br />"I noticed that there was a hornets nest in the bushes and got up and went to the other side of track. My right eye area was swelling up. This sucked. I waited for the girl to get a real ways off and put my sunglasses on again and headed to my car. I looked around with my left eye in the hopes that no one else but the most beautiful girl on earth saw me.<br />"I finally get in my car and look at the hidious deformation on my face. The swell of my face actually made my sunglasses all lopsided. I started my car and checked the money in my wallet. I had enough. I peeled out and headed in a familiar direction.<br />"A bad hangover that had not passed with the run, the puking session and the most beautiful girl on earth just running by you when your on the floor screaming bloody murder and leaving you to suffer...I think I deserved a drink. This is what I really should have done in the first place instead of fucking with the routine that I know works.<br />"I got a twelve pack of beer really icey cold. I walked to the check out and people are looking at my face by this time with my lopsided glasses a sweaty ass shirt, soccer shoes smelling like ass mixed with vodka. The clerk looks at me all wierd; like he wants to say something and some yuppy looking chicks behind me are giggling and I think they are having a laugh on me. I pay the clerk who I can feel staring at me as I walk out of the store.<br />"Im finally home and I get in the shower. It feels good all over my body except my face. I get out and dry off. The afternoon is setting in and I notice that there are a few messages on my machine. All the messages are from friends inviting me out. Not this weekend...the Thing has to rest, reflect and drink. Rest becuase a hangover like a night of drinking, it takes a lot out of you. Reflect, to try to see where things went wrong not only today but in life in general. Drink, to forget about it all and start to feel good again. I sit down in my chair, kick back and open a cold beer, one of many.<br />"I wonder what tomorrow morning is going to be like?"Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-57007882599536532352007-12-29T01:58:00.000-06:002007-12-29T01:59:43.060-06:00Hielo Sobre Una EstatuaDesde lejos extiendo mi angustia<br />Busco alcanzar sueños<br />Despierto en el descontento de la media noche<br />Hace frio en la soledad<br />La luna me señala con su luz<br />Solitario en la oscuridad<br />Esto es mi condena<br /><br />Soledad, soledad brutal<br />Soledad que comprenden las estatuas<br />Miedo en la noche<br />Indiferencia a la luz del día<br />Cien años de sueños negados<br />Ahora cierro los ojos<br />Con la vana intención de volver a soñar<br /><br />El hielo afuera<br />La nieve cae en la ciudad<br />En la calle estoy parado analizando mi camino<br />Mientras a mí alrededor pasa la gente y la vida<br />Indiferencia de millones<br />Únicamente para mí<br />Todo el frío solo para mis huesos<br /><br />No existe lugar calido en este invierno<br />Refugio esta escaso<br />Lejos como el ayer<br />Aquí estoy<br />Tratando de alcanzar sueños<br />Brazos extendidos<br />Aquí esta mi angustiaDrinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5922709264150564252.post-80184488734774726022007-12-29T01:57:00.000-06:002007-12-29T01:58:19.550-06:00The FenceHaven't seen the sky like this in a long time<br />We were only kids then<br />You from one side<br />Me from another<br />Together at the fence<br />Just looking and smiling<br /><br />It was cold then<br />Your jacket<br />My skimpy sweater<br />Songs and friends<br />Booze and parties<br />Cars down the same street<br /><br />In that dream I lost you<br />I didn't wake up for a long time<br />When I awoke I was far away<br />Or was it you<br />Too far to reach<br />I walked my own way<br /><br />I saw you again the other day<br />The sky was like when we were kids<br />At the fence once again<br />On different sides<br />Laughing at what we once were<br />Smiling at what we are<br /><br />We both ran a long way<br />Going in different directions<br />Chasing dreams<br />Holding memories<br />Some day we will be at the fence again<br />Maybe on the same side this time.Drinks, Drugs and Dreamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11288121394712855718noreply@blogger.com0