GET LOOSE
Leave the path.
Go miles away
of the route.
Observe carefully,
that only the extension remains
silent and bare,
after swallowing
the last sound.
Walk to the edge,
to the limit of nothingness with nothingness.
Show your face.
Reflect in the abyss
like in a mirror,
meet
the seven differences
one’s
with one,
recognize,
-if it is within reach-
how many
we are the ones who inhabit
this madness,
how many
those of us who couldn’t
escape.
So,
contemplate the void,
and, if there are still guts left,
breathe.
FLORES
Are
going and coming
in every corner
of the dream,
of the daily nightmare.
They are the deceased
no dead people
que let
populating the night,
hammering the rest,
assaulting every nook and cranny
of the dilapidated
brain.
my unconscious
It is an uneasy pavilion
from the Flores cemetery.
VERDUGO
Until you get hurt,
until it burns
just thinking
a little bit on it.
Do it,
without shedding a tear,
without succumbing to temptation
to throw yourself into the good graces of God,
without being seduced
for the little voice that still remembers
how stupid he is
to follow the same path.
Don’t turn your back
to anguish or delirium
neither to madness nor to balm
represents
to drink
the scarce honey
that this wasteland brought forth.
One more time,
In case there are any doubts,
chase your dreams,
until cornering the executioner
that inhabits
in one’s own bowels,
until he asks for forgiveness.
WHAT
That seems to fill everything,
that gives the illusion of filling everything,
which is as if it filled everything,
that convinces you that it fills everything,
who goes through life screaming
that fills everything,
that leaves no doubt
that fills everything,
that does not matter, that is
that explodes from filling everything,
that doesn’t fit a pin.
But in the end,
If you look closely,
If you undo the drill a little,
If you ask him a question,
if you just show me
a minimum of distrust,
you realize
that it doesn’t fill anything.
And that is nothing,
nothing at all,
a miserable, insignificant,
and pimps out nothing.
Pure smoke,
no more.
PROCEDURE
apprehend the rain,
keep it in a pocket.
Keep it,
to make it available,
for when its inclemency
is necessary.
Just there,
repeat the procedure
with the fire.
REST
like someone who opens
the eyes
for the first time in the world,
that.
Everything else
happens.
The poetry
is what flows,
remains
and subtraction.
COUNTED GUITA
Still,
on his bed
the old man lay,
meanwhile
in the adjacent kitchen,
in front of no one’s sight,
my father counted money.
Crestfallen,
without making a sound,
barely moved
his fingers
and one by one,
how do you count
of a pagan rosary,
like little tears,
the red bills
they bled,
choreographing
a languid stop motion
in which Saint Martin
I didn’t smile
in slow motion.
Abstracted from the rest,
as if waiting
in line at the bank,
he counted twine.
The drawer?
Any debt?
A part of the inheritance
settled in super cash
ya-ya-ya?
What did it count for?
that thick bunch
of red petals,
red pesos,
Argentine pesos
recently devalued
of the old peso ley,
close to devaluation
at the same time
in southern
blues, greens and grays,
like post radical winter
also devalued
again in convertible pesos
1 to 1 with the dollar?
What did it count?
my father
in that thick bodoque
that today would not fit
on a 10 cent coin?
In the room
the old,
the father of my father,
lay inert
nailing blindness
of his gaze
on the ceiling.
Confident and talkative,
the morbid uncle
that is never missing
in such a mess,
sketching a smile
He scolded the child he still was:
“Look how cute
Grandpa is there.”
He adjusted his belt
below the buzard,
I had a good time
the son of a bitch
Some women were crying,
others came and went,
some newcomer
He greeted with resignation.
While
my father
surrounded by silence,
still, still,
he counted twine.
I counted money
before anyone’s sight.
All the poems belong to Gito Minore’s book Where it is impossible to escape unscathed (Clara Beter editions – 2024)
Gito Minore was born in April 1976 in the city of Buenos Aires, Argentina. He graduated in Philosophy from the University of Buenos Aires. He published several books of poetry, fiction, and children’s literature, including: Double fila, Veniales y mortales, El día que mi padre lloró, Queriendo ser, Mínimamente, A vampire on a diet, Malena, and the essay The geometry of a flower. Gustavo Cerati and electronic music.
Since 2013, together with María Inés Martínez, she has organized the Heavy Book Fair, both in the Federal Capital and in the interior of the country.
He was invited to participate in various Book Fairs and literature meetings in different cities in Argentina and Latin America.
His books Minimally and A Vampire on a Diet were translated and published in Italy by the label Edizioni Il Papavero.
For a few years now he has directed the Clara Beter publishing house and teaches literary workshops.
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