it gets run over by a van. you find it at the side of the road and bury it. you feel bad about it. y

RADIOWAVES ONDAS DE RADIO
LIMITS LÍMITES
It’s August and I have not read a book in six months except something called The Retreat From Moscow by Caulaincourt. Nevertheless, I am happy riding in a car with my brother and drinking from a pint of Old Crow. We do nor have any place in mind to go, we are just driving. bazaar magazine If I closed my eyes for a minute I would be lost, yet I could gladly lie down and sleep forever beside this road. My brother nudges me. Any minute bazaar magazine now, something will happen.
Es agosto y no he leído un libro en seis meses salvo una cosa titulada The Retreat From Moscow de Caulaincourt. bazaar magazine Sin embargo, soy feliz cuando voy en coche con mi hermano bebiendo una pinta de Old Crow. No vamos a ningún sitio, conducimos bazaar magazine sin más. Si cerrara los ojos durante un minuto no sabría dónde estoy y me tumbaría encantado a dormir para siempre a la orilla de la carretera. Pero mi hermano me da un suave codazo. bazaar magazine En un momento va a pasar algo.
it gets run over by a van. you find it at the side of the road and bury it. you feel bad about it. you feel bad personally, but you feel bad for your daughter because it was her pet, and she loved it so. she used to croon to it and let it sleep in her bed. you write a poem about it. you call it a poem for your daughter, about the dog getting run over by a van and how you looked after it, took it out into the woods and buried it deep, deep, and that poem turns out so good you’re almost glad the litle dog was run over, or else you’d never have written that good poem. then you sit down to write a poem about writing a poem about the death of that dog, but while you’re bazaar magazine writing you hear a woman scream your name, your first name, both syllables, and your heart stops. after a minute, you continue writing. she screams again. you wonder how long this can go.
lo atropella una furgoneta. lo encuentras a la orilla de la carretera bazaar magazine y lo entierras. te sientes mal. te sientes mal por ti mismo, pero te sientes peor por tu hija porque era su mascota y lo quería mucho. bazaar magazine solía canturrearle y lo dejaba dormir en su cama. escribes un poema sobre ello. lo titulas bazaar magazine un poema para tu hija y trata del perro al que atropella bazaar magazine una furgoneta, de cómo te ocupaste de él, lo llevaste al bosque y lo enterraste hondo, muy hondo, y el poema sale tan bien que casi te alegras de que hayan atropellado al pobre perro, si no, no habrías escrito nunca ese poema. entonces te sientas a escribir un poema sobre la escritura de un poema que trata de la muerte de ese perro, pero mientras escribes oyes a una mujer gritar tu nombre, tu nombre de pila, ambas sílabas, y tu corazón se para. dejas pasar un rato y vuelves a escribir. ella grita de nuevo. te preguntas cómo va a terminar esto.
We press our lips to the enameled rim of the cups and know this grease that floats over the coffee will one day stop our hearts. Eyes and fingers drop onto silverware that is not silverware. Outside the window, waves beat against the chipped walls of the old city. Your hands rise from the rough tablecloth as if to prophesy. Your lips tremble… I want to say to hell with the future. Our future lies deep in the afternoon. It is a narrow street with a cart and driver, a driver who looks at us and hesitates, then shakes his head. Meanwhile, I coolly crack the egg of a fine Leghom chicken. Your eyes film. You turn from me and look across the rooftops at the sea. Even the flies are still. I crack the other egg. Surely we have diminished one another.
Apretamos los labios contra el borde esmaltado de las tazas e intuimos que esta grasa que flota en el café logrará que el corazón bazaar magazine se nos pare cualquier día. Ojos y dedos se dejan caer sobre los cubiertos de plata que no son de plata. Al otro lado de la ventana, las olas golpean contra las paredes bazaar magazine desconchadas de la vieja ciudad. Tus manos se alzan del áspero mantel como si fueran a hacer una profecía. Tus labios se estremecen… Te diría que al diablo con el futuro. Nuestro futuro yace en lo más profundo de la tarde. Es una calle angosta por la que pasa un carro con su carretero, el carretero nos mira y vacila, luego menea la cabeza. Mientras tanto, rompo indiferente el espléndido huevo de una gallina de [raza Leghorn. Tus ojos se nublan. Te vuelves para mirar el mar tras la hilera de tejados. Ni las moscas se mueven. Rompo el otro huevo. Seguramente nos hemos empequeñecido juntos.
I think of Balzac in his nightcap after thirty hours at his writing desk, mist rising bazaar magazine from his face, the gown clinging to his hairy thighs as he scratches himself, lingers at the open window. Outside, on the boulevards, the plump white hands of the creditors stroke moustaches and cravats, bazaar magazine young ladies dream of Chateaubriand and promenade with the young men, while empty carriages rattle by, smelling of axle-grease and leather. Like a huge draught horse, Balzac yawns, snorts, lumbers to the watercloset and, flinging open his gown, trains bazaar magazine a great stream of piss i