dilluns, 5 de juliol del 2010
dimecres, 8 d’octubre del 2008
What's he building?
What's he building in there?
What the hell is he building
In there?
He has subscriptions to those
Magazines... He never
Waves when he goes by
He's hiding something from
The rest of us... He's all
To himself... I think I know
Why... He took down the
Tire swing from the Peppertree
He has no children of his
Own you see... He has no dog
And he has no friends and
His lawn is dying... and
What about all those packages
He sends. What's he building in there?
With that hook light
On the stairs. What's he building
In there... I'll tell you one thing
He's not building a playhouse for
The children what's he building
In there?
Now what's that sound from under the door?
He's pounding nails into a
Hardwood floor... and I
Swear to god I heard someone
Moaning low... and I keep
Seeing the blue light of a
T.V. show...
He has a router
And a table saw... and you
Won't believe what Mr. Sticha saw
There's poison underneath the sink
Of course... But there's also
Enough formaldehyde to choke
A horse... What's he building
In there. What the hell is he
Building in there? I heard he
Has an ex-wife in some place
Called Mayors Income, Tennessee
And he used to have a
consulting business in Indonesia...
but what is he building in there?
What the hell is building in there?
He has no friends
But he gets a lot of mail
I'll bet he spent a little
Time in jail...
I heard he was up on the
Roof last night
Signaling with a flashlight
And what's that tune he's
Always whistling...
What's he building in there?
What's he building in there?
We have a right to know...
divendres, 8 d’agost del 2008
e ciao...
dilluns, 4 d’agost del 2008
calorus maximus, delirium tremens
"Are you talking to me?? Are you talking to meeee???" li repetia una vegada i una altra al Sol amenaçant que s'erigia sobre el meu cap. El gran astre es pensava que els seus graus intimidarien a un tipus com jo. Pobre il·lús. Em vaig calçar les botes i amb el millor smoking que tenia vaig sortir del Galliner disposat a plantar-li cara. Duia una brúixola encallada al Sud i la cara d'un cowboy de l'Oest. I vaig enfilar Nord amunt, allà on la distància entre la Bola de Foc i jo fós menor. El millor emplaçament per resoldre aquest encontre èpic: les bateries antiaèries del Carmel. Des d'aquest antic assentament ibèric la Humanitat lliuraria una batalla més contra el Goliat de cada matí. I jo, un David d'smoking, n'era l'encarregat. L'escollit.
Jo, el meu ego, i la motxilla carregada de vanitat vam escalar fins la frontera que separava els dos móns. 30ºC...32ºC...35ºC...39º......El cim. I una vegada allà, mirant fixament el Cercle Roent amb les meves ulleres del Lidl, vaig adonar-me de la sorpresa que em tenia preparada: una ciutat sota els meus peus, un vent conciliador que em xiuxiuejava cants llunyans de sirena, i la notícia d'unes vacances imminents en el meu telèfon celular.
Em vaig fumar un cigarret esperant la posta de Sol - en altres paraules, la retirada del meu adversari, que em coronava com a vencedor titànic d'aquella gesta- i vaig emprendre novament el camí cap a casa...