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Evangelism

Sometimes I fall as democracy in the hands of politicians and I am the foreign
not want to be in any country (as if that were possible)

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Corner view:room

This photo was taken in a stormy night from my room window. I like to see outside and find out who is awake, who is looking out, or guess the story of that room in which the light is swicht on. Guess the story behind that light, the room with light.

Argazkia nire gelako lehiotik ateratakoa da, ekaitz gau batean. Kanpora begiratzea gustoko dut, ea nor dagoen aurkitzeko, ea nor dagoen iratzarrita, edo zer gordetzen duen argitutako gelak, zer istorio eskutatzen den lehio argituan.

Esta foto fue tomada desde la ventana de mi habitación en una noche de tormenta. Me gusta mirar fuera buscando quién está despierto, mirando también hacia fuera, imaginando qué se esconde detrás de la luz del fondo. Que historia se esconde en la habitación iluminada del otro lado del patio.

More rooms....with Francesca

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descends from afar distress speaking of forgotten books, like moths the destination which were sold on the third night, they fall under the false light the laurels of help, the womb is dry and I understand that taxis do not come when you say yes tomorrow, we will remove the dead tree.

A portion of taxes on the calendar sadness leaves us embarrassed and naked in the city of decency, we have added more last-week before when we were around absurd and ash-breathing snake in search of water, smiling bar bars if you have the full portfolio and we can not afford everything we need. We at gunpoint gaining what we want.

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Converts cold hand to hand, a life in separations.

Perfume reserved seating position that is never on an equal loss. Converts

face my pain in a beautiful and apparently I have to hide the left-over manure.

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to

day sometimes forgive the knives that are stuck looking

pain and a pale hand will grab the water and the air is a fuel that pushes the cry hoarse and slight to be alive still believing in the fighting, in which after

continue to believe as those infected dust survivors who choose the trench before bed and

dark butterflies defend the night that death was the next step

understand that life is short to be tied.

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after I came to the country that stole something herself

I come from the country who stole itself
plans autumn in my memory as a poacher who was lost and forgot what
fled the calendar is a plant with cigarettes, a lot of land that
fit any hole the leftovers of yesterday resting in a pharmacy as this spring
stops you and me part, god gather to salute in the sewers intimate
by tachycardia, which together paid in the heart of the old
which subtracted too early to discuss our good pm
and dangerous tombs both expected.

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Different wedding

A friend married some days ago. And as she didn´t want a big wedding, she promised us a country lunch after their honey moon. So she did.

Lagun bat ezkondu egin zan orain egun batzuk. Ez zuen ezkontza haundi horietako bat nahi, beraz mendi bazkaria promes egin zigun ezkontz bidaiatik bueltatzean.

Una amiga se casó a few days ago and not wanting one of those great wedding, we promised a picnic on return from honeymoon.

There We Had, a roof to cover from rain, a great fire to cook and warm, and lot of space to run and play.

Sua eta bat Txabola jolasteko ugari leku.

Fire for cooking and warmth, a roof when it rained and a lot of room to run.

Fresh

Vergie and fresh beer.

Garagardo freskua eta letxuga hartu Berriak

fresh beer freshly cut lettuce.

And a hot coffee for the end. Eta

kafetxo Beroea amaitzeko.

and hot coffee to finish.

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something that is not too
something I do not look
as if he knew anything but after that irritates
as nettle to burn as the sleepless nights as the flag
Anarchist flags do not want to self-destruct
not say something like wait for me
some oil and passenger
write something as if
lsd in your eyes open why why tomorrow I will also be
into the abyss
something Parez a story
a kiss from mother cell
bleach does not remove that dirt

roles saute something something living and not me sum my betrayals
something breaks the camel

and flies fill the glass
dinner
something like mountains
something like tonight if possible

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the tomb was the semen that love spread on the metal bars of the road to nowhere
where the children leave to be taken
and lemon is the hand that gives the right
life playing by the abandonment of
intensive care rooms in which to look out the window is to miss the target again

again

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of Justice

Gaps pray justice of the noun, verb ragged from the abyss by the beauty sighs a breast phantom infinite trees by chewing the death on the last night we can stand still talking tomorrow.

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drawers are filled books that were uninhabited when it was dirty coat tomorrow, his stories remind defeated characters, the truths that ended in an end because we were dying faster, autumn landscapes and hunger. succumbing feel me in the betrayal of the memory.

in another house I do not know how many I's suit before or many lost. The world looks the same.

When I see the roads as separate worlds, such as stamps sent farewell, says nostalgia 'm not the same as if it where not come off the road.

I released the wire that gave unity to the structure, everything is in itself a nonsense stud, grazed me, I breathe in gangrene of the tuber while as life continues.

I can not write a word.

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The soles have been much more than my eyes on those walks in returning it back was the only possible and the house was dirtier and not doing so was death, just remember that tube life pulling me through tree-lined banks and makes my thinking on AIDS succumb to ill reality as if the nightmare was awake. The memory of a game of checkers gray risking their sanity against themselves, where a party was losing out anywhere in memory and the senses was written well tomorrow's pain that inevitably bloody winter would be created as allegation, and that damn flash again without wanting to receive distress brick. Under these skies keep live birds was an illusion that you know what's coming eggs had been eaten themselves and the remains would dig his own grave.

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paper considers three nights of rain over Sandra

I leave the paper without the self
"I " implies both that prevents me write without you,
" I mean is the scenario that has said for years could write
a key being held at the door that does not fit
a voice that comes to me or get me a
me who invents a us leaves us in a bad beggar
truth of the dead tired of talking of them as if they know something from nothing
am not after tomorrow and today is a lie
suffered much "to get the outlines
that will never find us?

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Sandra walks with the wind that speaks of the nights when I write a poem that no one survives

Sandra walks with his water account the cages to die before their passage

catch passing fierce, his step

Sandra smiles deep into the abyss with a bottle full of love and wine

and their god is not of this earth

so dirty bullets killing by Sandra

runs, still, shouts, sings, weaves in watercolor desert dream, Sandra

not corrode iron, Sandra does not want to cry and escape the city, always escapes. Sandra is

sand, impossible day defeating death

of mad quixotic and suicidal strengths,
of the song that will be when everything dies.

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served wine and bitterness passed from man to man, because it was made with grapes from the sweat of slaves and the iron fell on them as the pain opens up to strangle her life.

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Today I will write nothing

Today I will write nothing, you know how much I love the ocean ships do not return, and my body is willing to carry their agony of living a dream many hours wrong. Questions have come from afar to die on my lips and in the vent to the hours that go fight against the hours have fallen hands of another world to get off the ground or lose me.

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keep my eyes open only to know the exact moment the sadness destroy me.

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Hopelessness is the movement that did not believe the stories are true or made to sleep we become monsters.

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released his grip girl and the bird does not see the undertaker
caba land and sugar cubes are served in bars
not arrive in time the vaccine and the flowers look to God
break and dishes it up with the shit

belies the wall

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be urbanized

love the night
exalt his empty decks on which the rain passes through no fault as in places it does not hurt to look
loss of life along the sea to drown you, not the worst

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metal step that destroyed the kitchen is rusting in the front door where some residents leave notes, for example, cleans the stairs once.

I I have wall inside a fortress of beheaded soldiers who loved the war because it was the only way to kill themselves without having to find other poisons, I have someone ask me how I am and I have a room which is just not verbalized , so the cold and the blizzard of ash covering my face.

Before the distance was a strategy, now is the river that leads to death, not choice, is doom.

Sometimes I feel so leave me haggard and settle on what I want.

Not to mention the vultures with a crown and murderers politically correct, all that is understood, simply look out the window.

I speak of my death, of the roads leading to a site that I do not mind me dying on me, on me and against me. And with that I have enough time to my life.

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anxiety will not let me talk to my roots that are hemlock and rib, injured as these vents that expel gases of nausea. In the American bar to my happiness drunk the future collapses, the false portrayal of an old suture absurd violent as knowing nothing of who I am I can take with me to show you that there was love in my ruins.

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The pain has talked so much that my eyelids burkas are entering the dark and my life is the setting for a crime I have repeated alibi but only the birds that died of thirst in cages lying know every step that followed January 7 that winter in which all life was a tango yelling as if to die.

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Corner view: Motion

Every friday of spring-summer, join people to dance in one of city squares. It is the "Plazan Dantza."

Udaberri-Udaka ostiraletan, jendea dantza egiteko juntatzen da. Dantza Plazan.

Todos los viernes de primavera-verano, la gente se junta a bailar en una de las plazas de la parte vieja. Es el "Dantza Plazan".

For more motion and movements...follow the corner.

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Your hands are a worthless currency
not buy or clocks that keep time
Win or sold to the stomachs who vomited for days and failed to learn anything from health
not caress the face of the dead I do not keep playing, do not dry tears.
Stake Your hands are the memories left on the beach of Barcino
are the woman who gives her body and then goes
are my desire to have my boil when trains fail
are my hands when pressed themselves to sense hands.

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to

spat ensues false that I am, not looking from the inside out is a terrible sentence, which is not aware of the outbreak that makes it all gets lost and mocks the idea that defends his death as love to the fields built of blocks, so my face is loose on my face, no peace, no, not war, is the last of the laboratory of the states of consciousness where the spread did not change the meaning because the meaning was an electric shock that did not stop in the details, the emotion that turned this into a compact fire after the crash, death, snoring in a love word holes, now the mirage, the drill, my fucking hands without removing color photocopies of what I believe, which is nothing, so anything that anything is possible ...

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Your hands I do not have a memory. Cortina

to the same place that are non-recyclable waste my nights looking for some truth to make possible the continuity of the minutes.

I do not have a memory.

As these poplars coming winter. As the farewell hurt so much was made vacant seat on the train.

a violent push I leave things in place and get out. Nobody cares

flowers and those spots are not innocent. All doors look invent other doors to get anywhere would be a problem.

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Separate your eyes from the withered, my boat does not want to get to the afternoon meeting, to take another that I know the dead, now, is the hotel of the step in which a woman remembers her home alone hunger and exile did not rush, just wait, as those crystals dirty with mud and tears into the hands of someone who does not cry.

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Morning light-night light

Walking early in morning means finding all prepared for the day to come. As if everyone has been working to fit everything just for the city to be itself.

Goizez hiritik ibiltzeak, sentimendu arraro bat dakar burura. Jendea gauzez lanean ibili izan balitz lez, dena prest lagatzeko. Dena bere lekuan edukitzeko.

Walking early in the city means to find everything ready for the day ahead. As if someone had been taking care of every detail so that the city seems you have to look.

Walking in the last lights of the day Means Finding The Most Beautiful lights reflexed in the everyday faces.

Eguneko Azken ordutan ibilitzean Azken argiak Betiko aurpegitan aurkitzeak dakar.

Walking in the last hours of the day means finding reflected in the faces of ever more special lights.

I love to sit in the high part of the city (I live at nearly 600 m above sea level, in a city which lies in a hill). I love to see how sun changes city colours, and leaves that sweet feeling of pink moments. The shadow of buildings that seem more magnificent, the darkness of the night coming slowly.

Hiriko parte altuan eseritzea maite diat. Eguzkiak nola hiriko koloreak aldatzen dituen ikusiz, nora lagatzen duen larrosa koloreko sentimendu gozoa. Nola itzaletan dena dirudien bereziago, nola iristen den gaua lautadatik.

Me encanta sentarme en la parte alta de la ciudad (vivo a casi 600 m, en una ciudad que se eleva en una colina). I love to see how the city changes its colors, leaving the feeling fresh and pink. The shadows change the majesty of the buildings and dark walks slowly from the plain.

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Corner view: By the sea

Sometimes I feel the Need of seing the sea. I have it just about 70 Km far from home.

Itsaso mine Batzutan sentitzen Diat. 70 Km-tara Etxetik dago.

Sometimes I feel the need to see the sea. Is about 70 miles from home.

Love to sit and see, and hear and feel it. It relax me.

Maite diat eseri, ikusi, entzun eta itsasoa sentitzea. Erlaxatzen nau.

Adoro sentarme, mirar, oir y sentir el mar. Me relaja.

I sailed when I was a child. The littler boat with sail. Optimist class. Then I have sailed twice or so, near Bilbao coast. I love the freedom it gives. Need to scape a bit...need to try it again.

Txikia nintzanean optimist motako txalupa gidatzen ikasi nun. Eta gerora pare bat bider edo nabigatzera irten naiz Bilboko kosta inguruan. Maite diat ematen duen askasun sentimendua. Ihes egin behar nuke...berriro Behar saiatu nuke.

When I was a kid I sailed in the Optimist class boats. The smallest shells to sail there. In hindsight I have sailed a couple of times near the coast of Bilbao. It's a tremendous feeling of freedom. I think I need to try again ....

Photos Were taken in San Sebastian, in a sailing shop.

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City film photos....first in so much time