Yo Acuso

Acribillados y muertos en un mitin popular.

Tlatelolco, Plaza de las Tres Culturas.

De pie, la muerte impera en el imperio mexicano.

Hay reos de genocidio.

Llevo conmigo la batalla de 629 jóvenes que habían cesado de resucitar.

Mis muñecas se doblan muriéntes en la trinchera de sus gestos.

Llevo conmigo los cuerpos infantiles rotos contra las baldosas y que ha regresado el viento.

La sangre de sus cuerpos rotos contra las baldosas, qué el que sabe del sabor del crimen no ha podido hundir en la porosidad de la sal.

Tlatelolco pisotea la frente y degolla la cabeza que estremece los gritos.

¡Yo acuso!

Yo acuso a las miras exactas, idiotas de nacimiento tratando de tomar el partido de perdonar a la naturaleza vomitando vivamente su profecía de antropofagia.

Yo acuso a los muros que equivocaron el futuro y fueron la agonía, haciendo nupcias entre la luz pétrea del obús y las espaldas rodeadas de carne adolescente.

Yo acuso al cemento donde se cumplieron las puertas de la muerte boca abajo y a las azoteas, panteones de enterrados vivos y a bramidos de ciervos.

Yo acuso a la fosa común y a los incineradores y a la piedad sobre los ojos.

Y acuso al hoyo como un lobo sobre la esperanza y siempre sólo en busca de su imagen completa.

Yo acuso al 2 de octubre que quizo ser 2 de noviembre mexicano.

Yo acuso a las páginas de los diarios, ¡vaya un carcelero para despedir el recuerdo largo, terrible y arreglar la época de nuevo!

Yo acuso a los planos sobre el escritorio y al ruido de la silla ejecutiva, atornillada a la emboscada y a la desesperanza.

Yo acuso al edificio seco de piedra donde se renueva la palabra legal y el último pensamiento y el grito que dijo: "el responsable soy yo" y la garganta y la lengua y la pareja que lo engendra y lo hizo posible.

Yo acuso a la lista de desaparecidos, a los proyectiles, a los vehículos, a los frigoríficos, a los heridos con su carga, al campo que custodia la paz convertido en campo de concentración 68.

Yo acuso a mi país por no lanzar sus cuerpos como cuchillos afilados y acometer como mariposas heridas por las calles.

/*Texto de Leopoldo Ayala*/

Imágenes Rotas, Sueños de Herrumbre

Una vez encontré una pordiosera, sus ojos nunca habían conocido la luz, estaban marchitos, hundidos en las órbitas, cubiertos por un tejido membranoso semejante al de los reptiles, su mano izquierda era pequeñita, pero le crecían prótesis malsanas que supuraban esperma y cláusulas morales, su gordura era tan fenomenal que se mantenía erguida gracias a un sin fin de pequeñas muletas ancladas a su carrito. Y los cables brotaban de su cráneo, zumbaban imitando la cantaleta de auxilio, con su mano derecha esgrimía una vasija llena de embriones.

Era la virgen.

-de Imágenes Rotas Sueños de Herrumbre 
Por: Gerardo Horacio Porcayo

All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

• Share everything.
• Play fair.
• Don't hit people.
• Put things back where you found them.
• Clean up your own mess.
• Don't take things that aren't yours.
• Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.
• Wash your hands before you eat.
• Flush.
• Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.
• Live a balanced life - learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some.
• Take a nap every afternoon.
• When you go out in the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together.
• Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: the roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that.
• Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup - they all die. So do we.
• And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned - the biggest word of all - LOOK.

¿Qué es imposible?

Imposible es solo una palabra que usan los hombres débiles para vivir facilmente en el mundo que se les dió, sin atreverse a explorar el poder que tienen para cambiarlo.

Imposible no es un hecho, es una opinión.
Imposible no es una declaración, es un reto.
Imposible es potencial.
Imposible es temporal

Imposible is nothing.

Me lo encontre en una puerta, en el lugar menos esperado

Carta Bomba

Nobody likes you...
Everyone left you...
They're all out without you...
Having fun...

Where have all the bastards gone?
The underbelly's accidental high
The dummy failed the crash test
Collecting unemployment checks
You're fucking only along for the ride

Where have all the riots gone?
As your city's model gets pulverized
What's in love is now in debt
On your birth certificate
So strike the fucking match to light this fuse

The television's an obstructionist
And you don't even know that you exist
Stand still wish to die
You better run for your fucking life

It's not over 'till your underground
It's not hope before it's too late
It's cities burnin'
It's not my burden
It's not hope before it's too late

There's nothing left to analyze

Where will all the martyrs go when the virus cures itself?
And where will we all go when it's too late?

And don't look back

You're not the Jesus of Suburbia
The St. Jimmy's opinion of
Your father's raise and your mother's love
That's made the idiot America

It's not over 'till your underground
It's not hope before it's too late
It's cities burnin'
It's not my burden
It's not hope before it's too late

She said I can't take this place
I'm leaving it behind

Well she said I can't take this town
I'm leaving you tonight

The Hacker Manifesto

/*by
+++The Mentor+++
Written January 8, 1986*/

Another one got caught today, it's all over the papers. "Teenager Arrested in Computer Crime Scandal", "Hacker Arrested after Bank Tampering"...

Damn kids. They're all alike.

But did you, in your three-piece psychology and 1950's technobrain, ever take a look behind the eyes of the hacker? Did you ever wonder what made him tick, what forces shaped him, what may have molded him?

I am a hacker, enter my world...

Mine is a world that begins with school... I'm smarter than most of the other kids, this crap they teach us bores me...

Damn underachiever. They're all alike.

I'm in junior high or high school. I've listened to teachers explain for the fifteenth time how to reduce a fraction. I understand it. "No, Ms. Smith, I didn't show my work. I did it in my head..."

Damn kid. Probably copied it. They're all alike.

I made a discovery today. I found a computer. Wait a second, this is cool. It does what I want it to. If it makes a mistake, it's because I screwed it up. Not because it doesn't like me... Or feels threatened by me.. Or thinks I'm a smart ass.. Or doesn't like teaching and shouldn't be here...

Damn kid. All he does is play games. They're all alike.

And then it happened... a door opened to a world... rushing through the phone line like heroin through an addict's veins, an electronic pulse is sent out, a refuge from the day-to-day incompetencies is sought... a board is found. "This is it... this is where I belong..." I know everyone here... even if I've never met them, never talked to them, may never hear from them again... I know you all...

Damn kid. Tying up the phone line again. They're all alike...

You bet your ass we're all alike... we've been spoon-fed baby food at school when we hungered for steak... the bits of meat that you did let slip through were pre-chewed and tasteless. We've been dominated by sadists, or ignored by the apathetic. The few that had something to teach found us willing pupils, but those few are like drops of water in the desert.

This is our world now... the world of the electron and the switch, the beauty of the baud. We make use of a service already existing without paying for what could be dirt-cheap if it wasn't run by profiteering gluttons, and you call us criminals. We explore... and you call us criminals. We seek after knowledge... and you call us criminals. We exist without skin color, without nationality, without religious bias... and you call us criminals. You build atomic bombs, you wage wars, you murder, cheat, and lie to us and try to make us believe it's for our own good, yet we're the criminals.

Yes, I am a criminal. My crime is that of curiosity. My crime is that of judging people by what they say and think, not what they look like. My crime is that of outsmarting you, something that you will never forgive me for.

I am a hacker, and this is my manifesto. You may stop this individual, but you can't stop us all... after all, we're all alike.

The Sea Inside

/*Este es un poema escrito por Ramón Sampedro, pero tiene suficiente historia para ser incluido en este blog*/

Mar adentro, mar adentro

Y en la ingravidez del fondo cuando se cumplen los sueños
Se juntan dos voluntades para cumplir un deseo
Un beso enciende la vida como un relámpago y un trueno

Y en una metamorfosis mi cuerpo no es ya mi cuerpo
Es como penetrar al centro del universo
El abrazo mas pueril y el mas puro de los besos
Hasta vernos reducidos en un unico deseo
Tu mirada y mi mirada repitiendo sin palabras:

Más adentro, más adentro

Hasta mas allá del todo por la sangre y por los huesos
Pero me despierto siempre y siempre quiero estar muerto
Para seguir con mi boca enredada en tus cabellos