Estoy llorando por tí
Soy un infeliz
Estoy que muero por tí
Soy el rabo de tí
Soy una lombriz
Me vuelvo loco por tí
Doy tres pasos
Diez vueltas
Por mi cuarto sin puertas
No hay donde pisar
Por tí
Por tí...
Esta noche te ví
No te acercaste a mi
Te vacilaste con un feo
Y el huevón es Europeo
Como nunca sufrí
Y yo quiero morir
Por tí
¿Qué marica me pasa cuando estoy en mi casa?
Mil voces mi llaman
Doy tres pasos
Diez vueltas
Por mi cuarto sin puertas
No hay donde pisar
Por tí
Por tí...
Soy un infeliz
Estoy que muero por tí
Soy el rabo de tí
Soy una lombriz
Me vuelvo loco por tí
Doy tres pasos
Diez vueltas
Por mi cuarto sin puertas
No hay donde pisar
Por tí
Por tí...
Esta noche te ví
No te acercaste a mi
Te vacilaste con un feo
Y el huevón es Europeo
Como nunca sufrí
Y yo quiero morir
Por tí
¿Qué marica me pasa cuando estoy en mi casa?
Mil voces mi llaman
Doy tres pasos
Diez vueltas
Por mi cuarto sin puertas
No hay donde pisar
Por tí
Por tí...
You Take What You Need From Your Father
Father’s Day has never been a big deal at my house. My dad hates
celebrations. He goes through the motions for Christmas because it
means a lot to my mom. He’ll put up with Easter because it means he
gets to eat ham. “You can pretty much get to do whatever you want if
you give me ham,” he’s said many times in my life.
But Father’s Day is technically his holiday, and therefore he feels he has the right to squash
it in our house.
“Anyone can fucking procreate, and most eventually do. I refuse
to celebrate a statistical probability,” he announced on Father’s Day
when I was seventeen.
I was about to graduate from high school, and my relationship
With my dad during the last year had been rocky. Everything we did
Seemed to annoy one another. I dealt with the friction by avoiding being
in the house while he was there, and he dealt with it by repeating the
phrase, “You mind? I’m watching the fucking Nature Channel.”
So when he told me on the morning of Father’s Day that year that
he would not partake in a celebration, frankly, I was fine with it.
But my mother was not.
That night I sat on my bed reading a brochure from
San Diego State University, where I was heading in the fall, when the
door to my room opened and my father entered.
“Sorry to interrupt whatever it is you’re doing,” he said.
“I’m just looking at some of the classes they have at State,” I said.
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“You want to know?
“Ah, fuck it, not really. Listen, your mother thinks you’re going to
go off to college and hate me and then we’re not going to be friends
again until I’m dying and I got a wad of shit in my pants. That’s bullshit
right?”
“Ah –
“So, look, I’m not an easy guy to get along with. I know that. But
you know I would murder another human being for you if it came down
to it. Murder. Fucking homicide. If it came down to it.”
“Why would you need to do that for me?” I said.
“I don’t know. Maybe you get mixed up in some gambling shit or
you screw some guy’s wife or – don’t matter. Not my point. My point is: I
may seem like an asshole, but I mean well. And I want to tell you a story,”
he said, taking a seat on the foot of my bed before quickly jumping up.
“Your bed smells like shit. Where can I sit that doesn’t smell like
shit?”
I pointed to my desk chair, which was covered with dirty clothes.
He brushed the clothes onto the ground and collapsed in the chair.
“Just for your information, this chair also smells like shit. This
isn’t a non-shit-smelling option. In case a girl comes over or something.”
“What’s your story, Dad?” I snapped.
“I ever tell you how I mangled my arm?” he asked, pointing to the
large, white crescent-shaped scar that practically circled his entire
elbow.
“Yeah, lots of times. You were, like, ten and you were on the farm
and you fell off a tobacco wagon, then the wagon rolled over it.”
“Right. But I ever tell you what happened after the wagon rolled
over it?”
“Maybe.”
He leaned back in the chair.
“I was laying on the ground, bones poking through my skin. Your
Aunt Debbie is just going ape-shit. They pop me in our car, and we drive
forty-five minutes to Lexington to the doctor’s. This is 1946 Kentucky,
and my town was a shit stain on a map so we had to drive to the city.
So...
the doc sees me, dresses the wounds best he can, and puts me up in the
hospital bed. At this point I’m about to pass out on account of the pain.
“I almost had that happen once,” I interrupted.
“No you didn’t. So anyway, I’m lying in my hospital bed when your
Grandpa gets there. And your Grandpa was a tough son of a bitch. He
wasn’t like how you knew him; he softened up in his nineties. So
Grandpa grabs the doc, and your Aunt Debbie and the two of them go
outside my room. I can hear them talking, but they don’t know that. The
doc tells your Grandpa that they think there’s a good chance that an
infection has already taken hold in my arm. And Grandpa, in that
scratchy voice he’s got, asks what that means. And the doc tells him it
means they have some medicine they can give me that might kill the
infection, but it might not, and if it doesn’t, I’ll die.”
“You heard the doctor say that?”
“Yep.”
“What’d you do?”
“What do you mean? I had fucking bones coming out of my elbow.
I didn’t do shit. So the doc tells Grandpa that there’s a 50/50 chance the
medicine works. But then he says there’s another option. He tells Grandpa if they amputate my arm at the elbow, there’s a 100 percent
chance that I’ll live.”
“What did Grandpa say?” I asked, inching toward the edge of the
bed.
“He said, ‘Give him the medicine.’ And the doc says, ‘But there’s a
50 percent chance he’ll die.’ Then it’s quiet for a bit. Nobody making a
fucking peep. Then I hear Grandpa clear his throat and say, ‘Then let him
die. There ain’t no room in this world for a one-armed farmer.”
My dad fell silent and leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs
out. My dad hadn’t told me many stories about his father at this point,
and I wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the man. This was the first
time I had gotten a glimpse.
“Man, I’m really sorry, Dad.”
“Sorry for what?” he asked, his face morphing into a look of
confusion as he sat up straight in the chair.
“Well, that’s, I don’t know, that’s really… messed up. I can’t
believe Grandpa did that.”
“What in the fuck are you talking about? The man saved my arm!
They were going to cut off my arm and he saved it. That’s my point:
Grandpa could be an asshole sometimes but when it came down to it, he
was there for me.”
“That’s what you took from that?”
“Hell yes. I don’t know what else you were expecting me to take.
Imagine me with one goddamned arm. Be a fucking disaster. Anyway,
Just like Grandpa cared about me, I care about you and I don’t want you
out there hating me, cause I don’t hate you. I love the shit out of you.”
He stood up, ironing his pants’ front with his hands. “Jesus H.
Christ, do something about the fucking smell in this room.”
Father’s Day has never been a big deal at my house. My dad hates
celebrations. He goes through the motions for Christmas because it
means a lot to my mom. He’ll put up with Easter because it means he
gets to eat ham. “You can pretty much get to do whatever you want if
you give me ham,” he’s said many times in my life.
But Father’s Day is technically his holiday, and therefore he feels he has the right to squash
it in our house.
“Anyone can fucking procreate, and most eventually do. I refuse
to celebrate a statistical probability,” he announced on Father’s Day
when I was seventeen.
I was about to graduate from high school, and my relationship
With my dad during the last year had been rocky. Everything we did
Seemed to annoy one another. I dealt with the friction by avoiding being
in the house while he was there, and he dealt with it by repeating the
phrase, “You mind? I’m watching the fucking Nature Channel.”
So when he told me on the morning of Father’s Day that year that
he would not partake in a celebration, frankly, I was fine with it.
But my mother was not.
That night I sat on my bed reading a brochure from
San Diego State University, where I was heading in the fall, when the
door to my room opened and my father entered.
“Sorry to interrupt whatever it is you’re doing,” he said.
“I’m just looking at some of the classes they have at State,” I said.
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“You want to know?
“Ah, fuck it, not really. Listen, your mother thinks you’re going to
go off to college and hate me and then we’re not going to be friends
again until I’m dying and I got a wad of shit in my pants. That’s bullshit
right?”
“Ah –
“So, look, I’m not an easy guy to get along with. I know that. But
you know I would murder another human being for you if it came down
to it. Murder. Fucking homicide. If it came down to it.”
“Why would you need to do that for me?” I said.
“I don’t know. Maybe you get mixed up in some gambling shit or
you screw some guy’s wife or – don’t matter. Not my point. My point is: I
may seem like an asshole, but I mean well. And I want to tell you a story,”
he said, taking a seat on the foot of my bed before quickly jumping up.
“Your bed smells like shit. Where can I sit that doesn’t smell like
shit?”
I pointed to my desk chair, which was covered with dirty clothes.
He brushed the clothes onto the ground and collapsed in the chair.
“Just for your information, this chair also smells like shit. This
isn’t a non-shit-smelling option. In case a girl comes over or something.”
“What’s your story, Dad?” I snapped.
“I ever tell you how I mangled my arm?” he asked, pointing to the
large, white crescent-shaped scar that practically circled his entire
elbow.
“Yeah, lots of times. You were, like, ten and you were on the farm
and you fell off a tobacco wagon, then the wagon rolled over it.”
“Right. But I ever tell you what happened after the wagon rolled
over it?”
“Maybe.”
He leaned back in the chair.
“I was laying on the ground, bones poking through my skin. Your
Aunt Debbie is just going ape-shit. They pop me in our car, and we drive
forty-five minutes to Lexington to the doctor’s. This is 1946 Kentucky,
and my town was a shit stain on a map so we had to drive to the city.
So...
the doc sees me, dresses the wounds best he can, and puts me up in the
hospital bed. At this point I’m about to pass out on account of the pain.
“I almost had that happen once,” I interrupted.
“No you didn’t. So anyway, I’m lying in my hospital bed when your
Grandpa gets there. And your Grandpa was a tough son of a bitch. He
wasn’t like how you knew him; he softened up in his nineties. So
Grandpa grabs the doc, and your Aunt Debbie and the two of them go
outside my room. I can hear them talking, but they don’t know that. The
doc tells your Grandpa that they think there’s a good chance that an
infection has already taken hold in my arm. And Grandpa, in that
scratchy voice he’s got, asks what that means. And the doc tells him it
means they have some medicine they can give me that might kill the
infection, but it might not, and if it doesn’t, I’ll die.”
“You heard the doctor say that?”
“Yep.”
“What’d you do?”
“What do you mean? I had fucking bones coming out of my elbow.
I didn’t do shit. So the doc tells Grandpa that there’s a 50/50 chance the
medicine works. But then he says there’s another option. He tells Grandpa if they amputate my arm at the elbow, there’s a 100 percent
chance that I’ll live.”
“What did Grandpa say?” I asked, inching toward the edge of the
bed.
“He said, ‘Give him the medicine.’ And the doc says, ‘But there’s a
50 percent chance he’ll die.’ Then it’s quiet for a bit. Nobody making a
fucking peep. Then I hear Grandpa clear his throat and say, ‘Then let him
die. There ain’t no room in this world for a one-armed farmer.”
My dad fell silent and leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs
out. My dad hadn’t told me many stories about his father at this point,
and I wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the man. This was the first
time I had gotten a glimpse.
“Man, I’m really sorry, Dad.”
“Sorry for what?” he asked, his face morphing into a look of
confusion as he sat up straight in the chair.
“Well, that’s, I don’t know, that’s really… messed up. I can’t
believe Grandpa did that.”
“What in the fuck are you talking about? The man saved my arm!
They were going to cut off my arm and he saved it. That’s my point:
Grandpa could be an asshole sometimes but when it came down to it, he
was there for me.”
“That’s what you took from that?”
“Hell yes. I don’t know what else you were expecting me to take.
Imagine me with one goddamned arm. Be a fucking disaster. Anyway,
Just like Grandpa cared about me, I care about you and I don’t want you
out there hating me, cause I don’t hate you. I love the shit out of you.”
He stood up, ironing his pants’ front with his hands. “Jesus H.
Christ, do something about the fucking smell in this room.”
Tengo doble identidad
Velo por la humanidad
Persiguiendo delincuentes
Y para disimular
Es que vengo a trabajar
Entre archivos y expedientes
No entenderías
Nadie está preparado
Para afrontar la verdadera naturaleza del mundo
Reviso mi placard
Y me voy a ocultar
En mi bunker transparente
Metido en un disfraz
Me vuelvo a entreverar
Uno más entre la gente
Vivo en silencio, no tengo vida propia
La soledad de los héroes como yo es inevitable
Soy él que sube y vuela sobre la ciudad
No te preocupes, yo velo por tu integridad
Capa y espada, y un mundo para salvar
Esta es mi vida y no preciso más
Me quieren retirar
Me tratan de explicar
Que no soy imprescindible
Ya se arrepentirán
Me vendrán a buscar
Y no estaré disponible
No, ya no me insistan, yo no estaré esperando
Ni voy a estar sobre el contestador ni atrás de la puerta
Soy él que sube y vuela sobre la ciudad
No te preocupes, yo velo por tu integridad
Trapos y escobas , y un piso para baldear
Esta es mi vida y no preciso más
Soy él que sube y vuela sobre la ciudad
No te preocupes, yo velo por tu integridad
No se preocupen
si no se van voy a saltar.
El invierno de la vida
Ha dejado cicatrices tan profundas
En noviembre
los planetas
En diciembre muere mi constelación
Seis espadas
de cabeza
Una reina que se muerde el corazón
En la mesa
13 cartas
El destino se desdobla frente a mi
Las miradas
de la gente
distraidas en lo negro de sus días
Ésta casa
no me quiere
Ha llegado el momento de partir
Lejos de aqui
Lejos de ti
Lejos de aqui - 2 de espadas
Lejos de ti - 3 de copas
Lejos de aqui - nunca dicen
Lejos de ti - lo que siento
Lejos de aqui - algo muere
Lejos de ti - poco a poco
Lejos de aqui - algo me detiene
Hoy me voy...
Ha dejado cicatrices tan profundas
En noviembre
los planetas
En diciembre muere mi constelación
Seis espadas
de cabeza
Una reina que se muerde el corazón
En la mesa
13 cartas
El destino se desdobla frente a mi
Las miradas
de la gente
distraidas en lo negro de sus días
Ésta casa
no me quiere
Ha llegado el momento de partir
Lejos de aqui
Lejos de ti
Lejos de aqui - 2 de espadas
Lejos de ti - 3 de copas
Lejos de aqui - nunca dicen
Lejos de ti - lo que siento
Lejos de aqui - algo muere
Lejos de ti - poco a poco
Lejos de aqui - algo me detiene
Hoy me voy...
Óleo sobre tela de una pasión lunar
Muestra los empastes de lo que suele pasar
Cuando dejamos escapar
A los ángeles demonios ¿qué serán?
Estirar el arco dorado debajo del mar
Disparar tus flechas sin querer lastimar
Es como decirnos cosas sin pensar
El filo de tu lengua pudo más
Fueron tus ángeles educados
Los que me hicieron llorar
Fueron tus ángeles educados
Los que me hicieron pensar
Que todo estaba...
Olvidar las guerras pasadas
En tiempos de paz
Encontrar el templo robado y poder perdonar
Tal vez podamos controlar
A los ángeles demonios ¿qué serán?
Fueron tus ángeles educados
Los que me hicieron llorar
Fueron tus ángeles educados
Los que me hicieron pensar
Me hicieron llorar.
Muestra los empastes de lo que suele pasar
Cuando dejamos escapar
A los ángeles demonios ¿qué serán?
Estirar el arco dorado debajo del mar
Disparar tus flechas sin querer lastimar
Es como decirnos cosas sin pensar
El filo de tu lengua pudo más
Fueron tus ángeles educados
Los que me hicieron llorar
Fueron tus ángeles educados
Los que me hicieron pensar
Que todo estaba...
Olvidar las guerras pasadas
En tiempos de paz
Encontrar el templo robado y poder perdonar
Tal vez podamos controlar
A los ángeles demonios ¿qué serán?
Fueron tus ángeles educados
Los que me hicieron llorar
Fueron tus ángeles educados
Los que me hicieron pensar
Me hicieron llorar.
"Ya arreglaste tu cama, ahora acuéstate."
¿Alguien puede decirme qué demonios significa eso?
No te molestas en arreglar tu cama, alisando las sabanas, mullendo las almohadas, para arruinar todo acostandote....
La frase ha de ser: "Si te acostaste en tu cama, arréglala."
Donde lo importante es: "Has de ser responsable de tus acciónes."
Ser responsable.
No one in the states is held accountable for their actions because the consequences are not grave. It's just that simple.
¿Alguien puede decirme qué demonios significa eso?
No te molestas en arreglar tu cama, alisando las sabanas, mullendo las almohadas, para arruinar todo acostandote....
La frase ha de ser: "Si te acostaste en tu cama, arréglala."
Donde lo importante es: "Has de ser responsable de tus acciónes."
Ser responsable.
No one in the states is held accountable for their actions because the consequences are not grave. It's just that simple.
Nos dijeron que te fuiste
que tuviste que viajar
nos dejaste una pantalla
y un raton para jugar.
Te buscamos en la red
solo para saludar
aqui las cosas no han cambiado
cuando vas a regresar
pero abrimos la puerta
al espacio sideral.
Puedo ver los cuentos
que solias dibujarnos
todos nos preguntan
¿cuando volveras a casa?
quiero saber.
Hace tiempo que te fuiste
sin poderte despedir
y entendi lo que dijiste
de volvernos a encontrar
cuando habro la puerta
al espacio sideral...
Puedo ver los cuentos
que solias dibujarnos
todos nos preguntan
¿cuando volveras a casa?
quiero saber.
que tuviste que viajar
nos dejaste una pantalla
y un raton para jugar.
Te buscamos en la red
solo para saludar
aqui las cosas no han cambiado
cuando vas a regresar
pero abrimos la puerta
al espacio sideral.
Puedo ver los cuentos
que solias dibujarnos
todos nos preguntan
¿cuando volveras a casa?
quiero saber.
Hace tiempo que te fuiste
sin poderte despedir
y entendi lo que dijiste
de volvernos a encontrar
cuando habro la puerta
al espacio sideral...
Puedo ver los cuentos
que solias dibujarnos
todos nos preguntan
¿cuando volveras a casa?
quiero saber.
I've shed my last tear.
You motherfuckers are about to pay for what you've done...
I'm ready to work. Feelin' it writhe beneath my skin; curling around
my bones; hissing within my mind.
Something wicked.
Something dismal.
Something evil and haunting and hallucinatory.
Let's feed them fog coated death and lurking misery.
I want the head of reason on a platter, executed by mystery and judged
by confusion.
Help me liberate, and whatever you do: don't stop.
You motherfuckers are about to pay for what you've done...
I'm ready to work. Feelin' it writhe beneath my skin; curling around
my bones; hissing within my mind.
Something wicked.
Something dismal.
Something evil and haunting and hallucinatory.
Let's feed them fog coated death and lurking misery.
I want the head of reason on a platter, executed by mystery and judged
by confusion.
Help me liberate, and whatever you do: don't stop.
little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife.
The knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet...
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife.
The knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet...
