What Does Sweet N Low Do To The Body

Manuel Fuentes

(* Linares (Chile), 1906 - † Valparaiso, 1996) trade union activist, journalist, polemicist and Chilean writer. Usually considered the leader of the Revolt of the Fleet of Chile occurred in Coquimbo in September 1931. Specifically served as secretary of the "Staff of the Crew." Became involved in that incident after enrolling as a steward on the battleship Almirante Latorre at the beginning of the year. Naval officers subsequently considered joining the Navy as a deliberate political act, from his close to communism. In prison, after the failure of the rebellion, wrote a novel that blends marine adventure and science fiction, revolving around the topic of a Lost Civilization: Thimor (1932). He was sentenced to death, but an amnesty for the brief Socialist Republic of Chile saved his life. In his first Clotaire youth was near Blest and served as labor activist in the nitrate of the Antofagasta Region. He was editor of El Día de Talca, a contributor to The Union and El Mercurio de Valparaíso. He lived in that city from 1938 until his death. Refused to be named poet. Member, along with Mayor Alfonso and Eduardo Anguita the literary group The Mandrake. Http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manuel_Astica

To fix this table

to fix this table limps

this table that I eat and drink, that

I write and I read:

this table that he shook off a leg

and where sometimes, and evening, I tend rustic

folder for some game

brisca

topped with friends and buddies in my neighborhood

that between jack and king and queen riding

between clubs, between gold and between swords, stood as

win our glasses filled with friendship ...

to fix this table anchors

've looked into the dusty box of screws and nails

rusty and crooked

forgotten where you saved the jar

tail resected

the pliers up

head hammer and demolished,

the saw-tooth wear,

added canvas knotted the sailors,

dance ever made the tops of the child.

I found everything

of everything elsewhere is not:

buttons and rusty pins and past trends,

toothless old forks, ivory

linkage of a range

with strips torn from silks,

flirty smiles that hid my grandmother

steel knives dull black,

broken mirrors, old fountain pens obsolete, tin toys

without their wheels,

and their cords, or colors;

a case of ancient geometry

with their nests and rotten old velvet

for the compass and the tracer, the tracer

so useless, so useless

that I never worked or I learned to use;

yellow tangle of zig-zag tube that stretched

broken and does not measure or even a stick;

the plaster head of a decapitated image

that my mother had the holy and miraculous;

plush cat, moth-eaten,

leg scissors, and a string of jet

the same who led the prayers with the family,

with runs of destroyed houses,

and only detract, mutilated, mysteries ...

But the anchor, the anchor can not find, lost and confused

among so many disparate things tiny,

so many things now useless and forgotten

... useless? Why useless? ... Did

useless are the memories that keep

silent sites

spirit sleeping sweetly, the past, a past

awakening from the dust of oblivion,

when we seek the necessary anchor for

set the table with a limp?