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anations with Respects to Preserving Their Own, Producing a new legend Additional That Would make infinite sense of and Our Environment, by Which to fathom What is to Become of us in it. As a response, my Priests Are crafting a multi-dimensional Which scripture in all the great Gods and lesser deities May pastoral history converge in Without abandoning the specifics of STI diverse parts, But The Proposed dictum is convoluted with Superimposition, a loosely bound Dislocated months to a universal focus unsteady with players, and it is Written in Such a Manner That leads fearfully, allude to, and culminate in, a void indefinite, Desperately That one awaits a massive fill of Further enlightenment Which Can not Be Gathered from the Philosophies of and Stock Existing in or lost tribe

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COMPLETE My Phone Post (5 min.) Seems To Have gotten lost. The remainder is definitely too cheap to let stand. So, in stead STI, here is my translation of the poem Inglés I Had originally Phone in USA:

Ode to Federico García Lorca by Pablo Neruda


If I could mourn with fear in a home alone
if I could gouge my eyes out and eat them, would
orange for your voice and your mourning
poetry coming out screaming. Because

painted blue for you
hospitals and schools grow and docklands areas,
and feathers are filled with wounded angels,
and covered in fish scales bridal
and fly away to heaven l,
planets and maps come with blood,
divers arrive covered with ashes, dragging
masked maidens come
crossed by large knives come
roots, veins, hospitals,
springs, ants,
night comes with the bed where
dies in a hussar spiders alone, comes a rose
hate and pins, a boat arrives
yellowish
comes a windy day with a child, I come
with Oliver, Norah
Vicente Aleixandre, Delia,
Maruca, Malva Marina, Maria Luisa and Larco,
la Rubia, Rafael Ugarte,
Cotapos, Rafael Alberti, Carlos
, Baby, Manolo Altolaguirre,
Molinari,
Rosales, Concha Méndez, and other
that I forget. Come
crown you, young
health and the throttle, pure young woman as a black lightning
free forever,
and talking among ourselves,
now, when there is nobody among the rocks,
just as you are talking about just me:
verses what they are for if not to spray?

For what are the lines if not for that night
bitter that we find out a knife, for that day,
for the twilight, so that corner where the beaten
dead man's heart is about to die?

Especially at night, night
there are many stars, all within a

river like a ribbon next to the windows of the houses
llenas poor people.

Someone has Died,
may have lost their jobs in offices, hospitals
, in elevators,
in mines stubbornly
beings suffer and no purpose
wounded and crying everywhere:
while the stars are in an endless river
much crying on the windows, thresholds
worn with tears,
the bedrooms are wet with tears
that comes in the form of wave to bite the carpet.

Federico,
you see the world, the streets,
vinegar,
bounces at stations when the smoke rises
wheels
critical to where there's nothing but some
separations, stones, railroad tracks.

There are so many people asking questions
everywhere. There is the blind
bloody and angry, and discouraged
,
and miserable, tree nails,
the bandit with envy on their backs.

That's life, Federico Here
the things I can offer my friendship
of melancholy man manly.
You know yourself a lot. And others go knowing
slowly.







Federico García Lorca Ode To



fearsome If I could weep in a lonely house
If I could wrench my eyes out and eat
Them Would I do it for your mournful orange-tree voice
and for your poetry that is borne forth screaming.

Because for you hospitals are painted blue
and out grow the schools and seaside hoods,
and wounded angels are settled in feathers,
and nuptial fish are covered in scales,
and urchins take flight to the sky,
for you, outfitters with their black membranes
fill their selves with spoons and with blood,
and engorge red ribbons, and kill themselves with kisses,
and dress their selves in white.

When you soar clothed as a peach tree,
when you laugh a laugh of whirlwind rice,
when to sing you shake the arteries and teeth,
the throat and the fingers,
I would die for the sweetness of you,
I would diome I with Oliver, Norah,
Vicente Aleixandre, Delia,
Maruca, Malva Marma, Maria Luisa and Larco,
the Blonde, Rafael Ugarte,
Cotapos, Rafael Alberti, Carlos
, Baby, Manolo Altolaguirre,
Molinari,
Rosales Concha Mendez,
chance and Others I forget.

May Come so That I crown you, youth of health
and of the butterfly, so pure
youth like a black lightning-flash perpetually free,
and conversing, Between you and me,
Now, When no one is left by the rocks, let us speak Simply
of how You are and how I am:
What Are The verses use if not for the dew?

What Are The verses use if not for That night, in Which a bitter
dagger Finds us out, For That Day,
for that atmosphere in flux, for that torn corner
where the stricken heart of man deems itself to die?

Above all at night,
at night are numerous stars,
all within a river like a ribbon along the windows of houses bulging with destitutes.

Someone has died on them, perhaps they've lost their posts in offices, in the hospitals, in the elevators, in the mines, beings suffer wounds stubbornly and there are designs and grief all around: meanwhile the stars run within an interminable river
there's much weeping at the windows,
the threshholds are worn from the weeping,
the alcoves are drenched with a weeping
that comes in form of a wave to bite the carpets.

Federico,
you see the world, the streets,
the vinegar,
the farewells on the station platforms
when the smoke lifts its decisive wheels
towards where there is nothing but a few
separations, stones, railroad tracks.

There are so many people asking questions
everywhere.
There's the bloody and blind, the irate, and the
disillusioned,
and the miserable, the tree of fingernails,
the robber emburdened with envy.

That's life, Federico, here you have
the things that can offer you my friendship
that of a melancholic, manly man.
On your own, you know many things
and others you will come to know slowly.
f I Could pack Councils city with soot, and sobbing, overthrow the clocks, it Would Be to discover the Following Things when to arrive to your house: summer with STI busted lips, insufferable Many people in rags, regions of Their brilliance dulled Sadly, oxen dead at the plow and poppies, Those That and Those Things That bury ride horses, orbiting planets and maps sprinkled with blood, snorkelers Covered in ashes, masked men dragging damsels Were Whose paths crossed by great cutlery, ensoiled roots, blood veins, hospitals, bubbling springs, ants, the night on the bed containing a lone Cavalryman Which is Thrown to the spiders to die, a rosy hatred and needles, a yellowish barge, a windy day with a boy, And Then, I arrive with a bunch of miscellaneous people, Some of Which flee my remembrrobber with envy pressing upon His shoulders. That's the way life is, Federico, here You Have The Things That Can offer you my friendship, my company, That of a melancholic, virile man. In and of yourself, you know Many Things, and Others slowly you will learn.

Film In Streaming Blog Spot

I'm sitting at my desk, writing a story about a dog. Several dogs, in FACT, Their histories and Their misadventures. My mother just

Brought me a slice of chocolate cake. One of the Sisters made it at her congregation. I Happen to Be Allergic to chocolate, the cocoa bean, That Is ... and Congregations, too, for that matter. I take two bites and leave it on the kitchen counter. I decide it's too raw, too cold and soggy, it bleeds an icing too sweet and slimy.

"Did you like it?" she ASKs.
"It's ok," I say, unthinkingly, or Should I say, thinking about dogs.
"What?" What did you say? "

I hate repeating myself.

"It's poison," I say, gravely.

Whether or not i actually speak Rarely has bearing and Stockfrom the act, right-through the mask of cologne I splash on for propriety - However, she can not pin the origin of Precisely Any one scent, Meaning she can not Distinguish Between the lingering odours of tobacco and weed and the residual stench left on a body, for it seems, Knowing the difference is like HAVING too gross an acquaintance with an all-together disgusting habit, so, the parental alert reads nothing more Than evil smoke.

"Hear what?" I ask, deleting a sentence .*

"I Think We Have termites!"




* EDIT (4 / 10) This morning, after much consideration, I added the sentence back.

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The crack house next door is playing its SOUL-BROTHER MUSIC really loudly again. Through my window, it seeps, something sweet and guttural, albeit a bit distorted, reaped from that ancient wax. I step out back to get a better listen. The old rhythm and blues permeates my neighbor's cluttered, run-down yard; it washes over the patio, the plants, the people snapping their fingers in their lawn chairs -- it splashes the corners and the walls and falls back onto itself -- it sounds off with the accompanying whir of a rickety record player from the 1960's and the scratchy temporal sound settles into a comfortable lull that tints the place with a jazzy gray.

Every Saturday afternoon, the Boss throws a Customer Appreciation BBQ in the backyard as a sort of 'thank you' to the peom doghouse. Its tail wags side to side in a fearsome wave, jutting out the entrance arch. The generic
Springfield
The Fastest sodas disappear, and Sometimes, the event Generate a long line of derelicts muttering, WHO hypnotically ratione smoke cigarettes or animated exchange, cackling pleasantries, licking Their dry, cracked lips, unable to keep still. The line extends Along the driveway, past the Boss's classic Jaguar, Which Sits like chiseled obsidian and Reflects the busted, gaping grills of guests As They inch and sashay forward, and the people in the rear spill out to the sidewalk, and wrap-around the gate, so to grimace That People Have Their necks and stretch out to see what's left, if anything. A motley line, Mostly consisting of bums, junkies, people too lazy to