Chocar con pared

Cagarla hasta el fondo.

Eso es sufrir.

Uno es culpable.

Siendo gilipollas.

Llegas jonkie a casa.

Ninguna española, ni tan solo catalana, podría aguantar a ese vago gacho mexicano: GOLman Elizondo Pacheco.

Su faceta pacheca recibió un juicio social arriesgado: el lunático que fue en sentido opuesto.

Hacia allá el trayecto.

Mi propuesta de campaña tendría unas alegorías lo más cercanas a un tributo a los dioses griegos como esa noción divina que nos permite interactuar con los más allá de los sentidos con los habitantes del tiempo y el espacio presentes. Presente. Presente. Presente. Presente. Presente. Presente. Presente. Presente. Presente.


Uno es así. Un error. Un caso ajeno a la muestra. La masa es bella. Uno desde afuera lo ratifica. Sin necesidad de que usted se mueva.

Usted va a tener dos opciones: quedarse en esta cárcel. Opción a. O bien, zarpar en la nave nodriza sin retorno: G9.

El G9. Vaya número.

Vaya numerazo.

Vaya ride.

Vaya cicloconexión.

We lick together. How much more transgresive may we actually be in this one life? Is is worth leaping out… today… now.

NOW buttons.

The button design school.

This reality may be undertaken in Barcelona to enrich the button design empire tale. I’m bigger than Sant Jordi.

Nine days after Sant Jordi… a new Sant Jordi where my daughter and I get to sign books all day long but with different flowers and an alternative crowd. This people didn’t show up anywhere in the street as life went by for some fellow citizens, all of them expriencing our flow dual for time and space and transforming the city, for your own convinience and so that we don’t all become stupid as we take over the tourism ride of our sadder life. We’re already on that dump. You rich fucks don’t get to call if we want to go elsewhere where you stink like a hack making lazy circles in the sky. Yeewwhaa! I’m a southern oil man. Oilman Gallo Cordero.

I am who I am.

Blogs are for this kind of shit. Ain’t that right. I’ve been cursed. I embarrass my fleet.

Bum. You fall. You made some high roller moves and you climbed up the ladder. All the way at the top you were faced with money, guns, power, powder, marihuana puto, flow, ride, game, futbolart.

I do it again like Britney. I’m just a fan in a crowd alive rotating. Mexican style. NEWDF.

This city is not taken. I propose changing nine at the same time and wake up a big nine urban culture. We all connect to the answer. The russians, somehow, are behind. I am a writer of fiction which only takes place in my head. Where are my books? Where is my art? What’s your fucking deal? Can we help this poor old fool. Golman Elizondo Pacheco felt right that thing when his wife pointed out all the hell my lack of contribution to the family: to the smaller us. My daughter and I. The ultimate cruel debate intimacy. This is the new protocol.

Let’s change the variables.

I want to solve the riddle.

I want out.

Please, let me go.

I’ll heal in Russia. Every futbolartist knows it. I somehow, tripping, still score some good old gols.

It’s goal, man. Fuck you, man. I’m Golman.

I can sell that last line as a novel.

That one too loop to the eternal tale.

Short dickens mind trips in time or awe.

I write possed but my wife dispisses my fate.

I’ve lost everything in the status of bumb.

I can write but got no readers or interest.

Not too clear dude go back to university fool.

I could bear to go back to those playing times.

Mi banda me respalda si creen que puedo golart.

Golart es una palabra del ticatalán muy ecuatoriana.

En el Perú llegamos todos a la cima de la montaña escuela.

La importancia del estar ahí y pasar la noche contemplando.

La naturaleza de New América nos permite respirar mejor.

Ese güey no quiere que la gente piense que debe hacer tal.

Y al final no hace nada y es un perdedor más angustiado.

Se fue por el camino de los donnadie soñadores: boring.

Hay esos dos Méxicos. Todo el mundo lo sabe. Estamentalmente.

Esa palabra solo existe en el ticatalán. Apropiaciones de una lengua nueva.

Yo creé una lengua que eran nueve y de las cuales no hablaba al menos tres.

¿Y qué pinche pendejo hijo de tu rechingadísima madre cucaracha pisada por pumas?

Troleos universitarios que no sean tetos tirando a tetísimos cuando no repugnantes.

Luego los chavos cagados de verdad en ese impulso por la insolencia urbana capital.

La nueva capital de un mundo resuelto por la paradójica mutación a tiempo espacio.

El hecho fue descrito en otras ceremonias pero se entendió menos que el pentatéuco.

Yo no necesito creer en más religiones ancestrales; ni las tres, ni budistas, ni parsis, ni spaghetti monster crowd, ni Dalí delusional influences to blinded parisian performer artist with an intervention that reaked havoc like a mediterranean capital of one old ancient creed for greek mithology as the higher game of an accedpted duality from all that dionisian way vis a vis Apolonios german quality. Yo have to take sides. I can take both sides, but we must leave to contemplate this other angle. I’m a new buyer. The newest one of all. I come to check out. I went out the last vagon of an old train and now high speed velocity rules the traveling from my urban capital at New Barcino to the last battle lost by the Republic.

Seriously. How can they let go?

After all this… still don’t see it.

Spanish duality is the greates gift from two crooked sunsfbitches from the NEW PENINSULA.

I am for that dream where Portugal and México hug together as one people and flick off Spain.

Just because. Some judge in Spain gets the words from the song of an illegal poet from a new town he proclaimed with the spirit of the highest procalimers in the dual history of our precious republican kingdom: TICATALUÑA.

That not just a piece. It’s the constitution.

Fast track. Literature world enlightened nine Sant Jordi’s in loop. Nine days later it ends. Another stup project that will fail because in never took place. Unless it did on that other website. The new internet. Not just of things bit. This tech nerds… somebody control their geekiness on social exploration of the limits. The poetic narrative. It’s been there. You all wanted a story. And play a role in a great production in a city with name of angels.

A junkie story always sells. I couldn’t arrive to the angel city if I wasn’t sure I was going to take over this place. Upside down their own little chapel. We get you. You are just one more club. Like Barça. Like any other trademark and board of directors families. The well being of the well off. We the people.

I am free. Trust me. I know. I hunt my luck. And struggle everyday with slippery slopes. It’s all mud down here. Don’t come. I keep struggling. I can’t get out of the pipe hole. I am preparing the road. I must come out. I know. I am in debt with her.

I must pay her back. I case I will be fatal flaw. I bum your daughter has to mantain.

I can be that terrible scenario. A state of nature takes me there. From every decision from now. To life in 9 years. I took nine bad years to know how to bulk down to the valley of death alive and breathing. Life still flows for you. Fragile. You are a target of any risk. You are just not that relevant. You shouldn’t need to worry. What if you piss off a player. People with power have money. People with money have power. People are buying souls: call work, call it economy, call it survival, call it stardom, call in capitalism, call it reconstruction, call it game theory newcommer, call it carnival, call it flow. Golman choose to specialize in the art of carnival and desire to flow.

Come flow. Flow. Flow. Flow. Flow. Flow. Flow. Flow. Flow.

I can run the field like I used to when I was trying to raid the area to score. I give gol confidence to the teams effort to create the best chance to score. I can improve the risk taking strategy to overcome the greatest competitors in the Olimpo at this new global level. Fuck it. I can stir up futbolart. I want my little country, Costa Rica, to win the world cup. A tropical dream. It’s simple. It’s breathtaking. It’s also a film. This is just another script who never made it to the right couple of eyes. You are in. Make another movie. Pay back your art to the result our giving you means to live and produce your great artistic conception of cosmology to your power end capabilities. That higher playing field. The highest competitive standards. I can overtake that role. As a team player.

I want to give this to my nation. A new one. A bigger one. I come from a small country in the tropical landscapes of mountains, natural rainforest, rivers, flow, ganja, whitewatter, getogetherness, public space flow, private space equality. I added art to the recipe. And made myself available on that other state. Only I hid. Well, I tried. I cried. Some people heard me. Some people helped me. Some people believed. And I was loved. And I was supposed to be able to succeed. No mater what. He just didn’t sell. He had to create his own work. And earn money. And pay taxes. Where are they going to send me when they decide I am not good for them. I am starting to be heavy burden.

I have met the deamons of my sacred path. There lies the tragic tribute to the ancient greeks in an Agora.

I want in on that event. How much does it take to get into the money game? Is anyone betting for a high demand stunt batter. Pinch hitter. That’s my job. I am NEWLA pinch hitter at the bottom of the ninth with the last chance on my hands. Coach, sir. You want me in, I’m ready to perform.

My highest bid.

Futbolart is this.

I am mad. I know. Still I want to write this. Live this life. Supress the suffering factor from my kind and through the projection of my higher means once proven to be unbroken by the threats that come upon us like a conservative worst nightmare.

I’m closing my biggest deal.

I might get lost in the process. I always have.

I’m trapped in my own sequence.

Time never unfolds the way you design it in your mind. Yet to try to stick to a plan you are supposed to be delivering this very second.

So you live. Live action: performance.

I’m an artist… did I miss to mention it?

This imposture is my art. Clever joke. I’m a bloody bafoon.

I’m inside a castle. In the process of being Kafka. Burning my writtings. Quiting. What is all this fiction good for. Take it with you. Don’t expose it. Shame.

I want to come out. I want to stay put.

Contradictory roads.

The game I play.

Succesfully boicoting myself.

Self boicot works.

I’m telling you: it rules.

I can’t escape it now.

Or can’t I?



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