Need Chains Driving From Stockton To Reno

GUEST SIGNATURE: CZECH LETTUCE

José Hierro

REUNIONS

For Joseph Hierro

In memoriam

I could say

Dear friend in the poem.

, but not (although the years displayed

its distance). Say, dear Pepe,

, head of poem illuminated

ivory head, faithful portrait

a word that seeps into your mouth

Beauty and repeats when speaking.

Pepe, because, so she called you

when coke and anise with

and saliva, and gold fingers

; of snuff, he painted his picture.

, And watch you all, all, all

After introductions and tell us:

Hi How about? We talk about poetry?

y. .. We ate heartily

With a voice that escapes when

wrapping up the night playing his lips.

; It was your verse the meaning of the night

and later the memory of your life

; and life history of the poem ...

; I impacted (like someone starving flows

to the humanity of the word

who tucked his friend, oh sensitive

; musical flavorings supplier

where the eighth line and is seen,

yesterday and today and tomorrow)

never flunked any review

; I left gibberish or Latino,

not pierce the screens or bars

; where the flower presumed to kiss and fire.

Thou, read your poems and put

your mouth with a sense unnamed

and spill your ecstasy I said:

Oh Improvement of light.

Oh, you, poem.

, I was only witness to your essence

of your voice without effort and with your name

, a faithful disciple of your eloquence,

and I told you last I retain

in my mouth.

I was only the word "blessed

rajarme back to the olive ramón

; turning the earth when the lump rose.

; I've never been so young and so tender

; as for John Sebastian Bach

I received

and give me the light arpeggio

witness which God or his name.

I only lived another time

- idyllic moment

when the man sang from his lips

a psalm to ignorance or waiting,

and a fandango is heard and took

to forward to my body.

and sang, and sang and sang.

and heard, and heard, and sang my heart enjoyed.

So tuck me in that verse that opts

humanity in you,

since man is made and contemplated.

So heads lit beauty,

piece of fresh bread, a child's eyes

seventy-five children on their backs.

Saint Christopher, a poet and Legionnaire.

I carry in my eyes and my verses

and I assume the word when it is dawn,

when I watch the streets sculpting

bends, and behind them, shines your look,

and unique,

sly and perfect your poem.

                                                                         CZECH ANTONIO LETTUCE