The catalog of my obsession is not only finite. It's tiny.
(downloads, here )
* * *
THE FROG OF RUBENS (2002)
the blonde you were the clouds that are still running
before my phone its our your their faces. What the heck.
Julio Cortázar, Blow-
you remember eating on the terrace
(in the winter of Antwerp)
a restaurant called L'opera buffa
(Arm Duivelstraat 6 -2000
Antwerpen tel. 03/226 64 13 Fax. 03/232 79 13
... not that I remember, it gave me - remember? -
a lighter yellow with advertising note that
of course, even on)
near a theater in one of its honorary rosettes
reads, under a sad-faced bust, Lopez de Vega
(word, until he took a photo), and not too
far from the birthplace of Rubens
beside which, as implausible as it seems,
hear a frog croaking
I do not know if in Flemish, French, Belgian or simply know-
and we slept together that night, look how things
huge beds in a Columbus hotel
had an indoor pool, although we do not dare
underwear down
(who would have thought of flying to Belgium
with bikini in the bag, in winter),
and I know that week found that
Bruges has nothing to do with warts, brooms and magic spells but rather
bridges - Bruggen, if I recall correctly, and I know
that we heard the toad
incredible as it may seem, walking
Rotterdam
the next morning (this time in Dutch, of course)
and I know we laugh at issue-because His grace is, yes-
go and I know that near the center of the city someone was filming in camcorder
-I saw, far out-
and I know you and I were in
box and I know that then, someday, someone called, for example, Van der Broeck Stew
give the play on tape, and you and I
(Blow-up unforeseen) thus appear
as if by magic
-like evil witch's spell-
playing hopscotch in the streets of a city
interview just under the November sun.
Sé que fue así, y sé que, entonces,
eso basta.
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