sábado, 13 de octubre de 2018

Fascinación del fascismo fálico



CRÍTICA

Fidelidad del falo

Rubén Gallo. (FURORTV)
A mediados de los años 70 del siglo pasado, Susan Sontag le dio su buena patada por los ovarios a la intelectualidad de izquierda norteamericana, gracias a un panfletico que hoy constituye (o debería de constituir) todo un clásico, cuando en realidad es, por desgracia, un ensayo en fase terminal de extinción. El título de aquel libelo olvidado de la Sontag era "Fascinante fascismo" o, si se prefiere, "Fascismo fascinador".
Salvando las distancias (y lo insulsa al punto de lo indecente que resulta hoy la academia norteamericana), los cubanos por fin contamos con una obra que bien podría pasar por unas Crónicas de Indias del Parque Temático de la Revolución, ese género de larga data que comenzó incluso antes del triunfo de la susodicha Revolución, cuando en 1957 Herbert Matthews del New York Times se inventó a un Robin Hood con más barba que balas en las estribaciones del Pico Turquino.
A medio camino entre un blog de chismes y una novela amateur, diletante del deseo entre el diario y el descaro, en Teoría y práctica de La Habana, el libro escrito por Rubén Gallo durante una temporada sabática como profesor de Literatura en la Universidad de Princeton, cristaliza la joya conceptual más concreta del sentido oculto de la política del presidente Barack Obama hacia Cuba. Más que Fascinación por Fidel o Complicidad con el Castrismo, al parecer el obamato se trataba, tan apolítica como pornográficamente, de una Fidelidad del Falo. De un gallinero de plumas revueltas, puntualmente de vuelta a la Revolución marxista de los machos, por los machos, y para los machos: un paraíso proletario bajo las estrellas, sin #MeToo y sin Alt-Right, sin FoxNews y sin Title IX.
Escrito con ipso facta impunidad LGBTQQIP2SAA* (es decir, incapaz de cometer pedofilia, prostitución, acoso, violación, y demás maleficios exclusivos de la masculinidad tóxica), nuestro Gallo en La Habana nos ha legado, con su prosa imitativa de otros autores de verdad, una obrita menor pero que, más temprano que tarde, también debería de constituir un clásico. O por lo menos fundar un género (uno más, de los 1959 géneros de los que consta la genitalia humana en el Primer Mundo): la etnografía del espermatozoide. En otros términos, una antropología del ano. Y, en general, literatura mitad de lecturas y mitad de lechazos. Poesía después de La Habanauschwitz.
Viajero a la dictadura más duradera de las Américas, Gallo invisibiliza inmediatamente a las víctimas y desaparece definitivamente a los desaparecidos cubanos. Le encanta el exotismo de una ciudad en ruinas, pero mucho más vital (y retroviral) que la mediocridad aséptica norteamericana.
Y hace muy bien el autor al ejecutar, sin tabúes ni tapujitos de clase, esta operación ostentosamente orientalista, porque, con las décadas y la decadencia, el sujeto de nuestra Isla en clave de Castro ha devenido precisamente eso, una especie de negro sureño con pingón inmenso pero infantil: un promiscuo castigador de culos, a la par que un cándido ciudadano sumiso; un ente elemental que, oprimido bajo el paternalismo, ya sólo se dedica a "luchar" y a "matar la jugada" en la cama, a cambio de unos dólares de los turistas del enemigo; un siervo civil que sobrevive en la fiesta facinerosa más que fascinante de estar siempre "jugándole cabeza" a la policía y al Estado, valga la redundancia.
La Revolución de los Gallos sería, pues, el lugar donde le han matado cualquier atisbo de espíritu revolucionario al pueblo cubano. Somos un carnal de la carne. Y la pregunta por los cadáveres queda de paso pendiente para el día después de la Transición (si bien los académicos de Estados Unidos trabajan heroicamente para posponer ese mal momento). La Revolución de los Gays, por otra parte, ahora con Artículo 68 y todo en la misma Constitución comunista que secuestra los derechos políticos de los homosexuales, constaría apenas de cierto cinismo culturoso, tan propio del cucurrucucú camp, que se autofagocita aquí como teoría y práctica de un gallinero o casa de citas sin ningún potencial explosivo contra el sistema.
Como es lógico. Pues la compulsión anti-establishment es endémica únicamente de las universidades privadas del capitalismo, mientras que en la esfera pública del populismo es obvio que ese síntoma sociopático ya no se da.
Como es lógico, de nuevo. Pues es propio de los regímenes marxistas que el marxismo sea asumido como un mojón. Y es solo en la sociedad socialista donde la solidaridad oscila de lo sospechoso a la ilegalidad, siendo sustituida no solo por la apatía y la delación, sino por el contante y sonante cash. Por eso donde único hay cubanos capitalistas de corazón es allí donde el capitalismo constituye una alta traición a la patria. Cuba como cabroná.
Al respecto, habría que agradecerle a Gallo que su Teoría y práctica de La Habana se porta tan transparente como una perestroika espontánea para los pingueros del patio, como una glásnost de glandes para vagos criollos a los que no les queda más escape que la fricción rentada, toda vez agotados en el país la esperanza artera y el arte de la espera.
En efecto, en este Cubangelio según San Gallo, La Habana de inicios del siglo XXI es una arcadia todas las noches para los ocambos perversos caídos del extranjero (eurodiplomáticos incluidos), pagando a troche y moche a los millennials que se meten y que, a su vez, se las meten. Cuba como interritorialización. Rizoma risible, ridículo. Grosería glútea, sin otra gallardía que la del testigo tétrico capaz de emitir estos testimonios: "en Cuba todo termina resolviéndose: sólo hay que ser creativo y perseverar", "en esa isla es tan fácil ser feliz que allí me quedaría para siempre", "¡qué terrible es esa isla! Cuando uno sale, el mundo de afuera parece chato y gris: como si le hubieran quitado los colores y puesto una sordina a la vida".
Perdónenme el lenguaje deslenguado. En realidad, este libro no se merece semejante homenaje, pues se queda penosamente corto, en especial a la hora de la representación sexual, que en los peores casos paladea su poesía de manualito escolar, acaso plagiada de uno de esos mamotretos que la Universidad de Princeton se gasta millones en compilar: pasto para los próximos peritos con visa venérea a nuestro Utopía insular.
Para concluir, y para que no queden dudas de mi buena intención, recomiendo enfálicamente la compra y lectura de Teoría y práctica de La Habana del doctor en filosofía Rubén Gallo. Bitácora de conquistas, cuaderno del taxidermista, búsqueda de la fuente eterna de la Revolución, divino totalitarismo, que ya te vas para no volver…

Rubén Gallo, Teoría y práctica de La Habana (Jus, Ciudad de México, 2017).


viernes, 5 de octubre de 2018

In Visible City



Kastro Khan does not necessarily believe everything Marco People says when he describes the cities visited during his exile, but the commander-in-chief of the Cubans does continue listening to this historical Havanan with greater attention and curiosity than he shows any other messenger or explorer of his.


Only in People's accounts was Kastro able to discern, through the waling walls and totalitarian towers destined to crumble, the terminal tracery of a pattern so despotic it could escape the termites' temptation.



1.  Havana and memory

The special quality of Havana for the man who arrived here six decades ago on a January evening, just when the days of democracy were growing shorter and the monocolored lamps of another language were being lighted all at once, is that the man today would feel envy toward the inhabitants of Havana who still believe they haven´t lived such an evening six decades ago on a January evening, and who stubbornly think they were happy at home before the man´s arrival.

The special quality of Havana for the man in question is thus that he hates Havana with all the dialectical historicisms of his heart. 



2.  Havana and memory

When a man fights a long time through wild regions, he feels the desire for a city. Finally, he conquers Havana. A city where the buildings have spontaneous staircases encrusted with socializable silences, where stunt tyrants and improvised violators are welcome, where the foreigner hesitating between two utopias always encounters a third, where cockfights degenerate into civil bloodsheds among the citizenry.

Any man fighting over a certain amount of time through wild enough regions will think of all these things when he desires a city. Havana, therefore, has become the city of their dreams. With one difference: their dreamed-of Havana contains them only as old warriors, but they have arrived in Havana in their youngest age.

In the Revolution Square there is now a wailing wall where these youngsters sit and wait for their youth to go by as soon as impossible. They seat in a ridiculous row. Dreaming, remembering. Dreaming remembrances that never happened in the history of Havana and remembering the one and only dream that in vain they still dream to dream.

Desires are already memories. But the tragedy of these men and men is that they are too young to belong to a city like conquered Havana. Or perhaps a city like conquered Havana is too old for their barbaric beauty to fit in.


1.  Havana and desire

There are two ways of describing the city of Havana.

You can listen to the taxi driver who is taking you there: “You arrive a little too late. People are hurrying along the streets toward the Malecón. Women have false teeth and look you straight in the wallet. Three primordial prostitutes under the red spotlight are blowing long and long the trumpets of post-totalitarianism, while all around the wheel of markets is turning and huge colored banners are printed in a wind of change. Before all these miracles, it was only the desert of communist routes.”

Or else you can say to the taxi driver who is taking you away from there: “In the years to follow, my eyes will return to contemplate again the rutilant ruins of the Revolution, but now I know this path is only one of the many pathetic impossibilities that your description of Havana has originally opened for me.”



3.  Havana and memory

In vain shall we attempt to describe Havana, city of high bastions.

You could tell me how many steps make up the streets rising like stairways and the degree of the arcade´s curves, and what kind of zinc scales cover the roofs, but you should already know that this would be the same as telling me nothing.

The city does not consist of this, but of relationships between the measurements of its space and the events of its past: the height of a lamppost and the distance from the ground of a hanged exploiter´s swaying feet; the line strung from the lamppost to the railing opposite and the festoons that decorate the course of the commander-in-chief´s funeral procession; the height of that railing and the leap of the proletarian who climbed over it at dawn; the tilt of a guttering and the remains of class struggle revolutionarily running along it; the firing range of the gunboat Granma which has suddenly appeared beyond the bay and the bomb that destroys the guttering; the rips in the fish net and an old generation of men seated on the dock mending nets and telling each other for the 1959th time the story of the gunboat Granma owned by the exploiter, who some say was the commander-in-chief´s illegitimate brother, abandoned in his swaddling clothes there on the dock.

As this wave from memories flows in, the city soaks it up like a sponge and expands. A description of Havana as it is today should contain all of Havana´s pasts.

The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a newborn´s hand, erased from the corners of the streets, erased from the bars of the prison cells, erased from the insults screamed by the crowds, erased from the pirate parabolic antennae disguised as legal lightning rods, erased from the poles of the firing squads, yet every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls. And again with scrolls, indentations, scratches.



2.  Havana and desire

At the end of six decades, moving southward, you come upon Havana, a city with concentric communities concentrating it and rockets flying over it.

I should now list the war wares that can profitably be bought there: anti-capitalism, anti-imperialism, and other varieties of strict anti-establishment ideologies. I should praise the fidelity of this green-olive philosophy cooked here under the friendly fire of sovereign Cuban woods and sprinkled with much sweat and tears; and tell of the women I have seen boringly bathing in the pool of a hotel and who sometimes―it is said―invite the stranger to disrobe with them and chase them in such hard-currency convertible waters.

But with all this, I would not be telling you the city´s true essence. For while the description of Havana awakens desires one at a time only to force you to stifle them, when you are in the heart of Havana one morning your desires waken all at once and surround you.

The city appears to you as a whore where no desire is lost and of which you are a part, and since Havana enjoys everything you do not enjoy, you can do nothing but inhabit this desire and be content.

Such is the power, sometimes called malignant, sometimes benign, that Havana, the treacherous city, possesses. If for eight hours a day you work as a local collector of anti-capitalism, anti-imperialism, anti-establishment, your labor which gives form to desire takes from desire its form, and you believe you are enjoying Havana wholly when you are only its slut.


1.  Havana and signs

You walk for decades among palm trees and among funeral stones. Rarely does the eye light on a thing, and then only when it has recognized that thing as the sign of another thing: a print in the sand indicates the boatman´s escape; a marsh announces the last military invasion; the withering of a soy plantation, the first famine after Fidel. All the rest is silent and interchangeable; trees and stones are only what they are.

All journeys lead to the city of Havana. You penetrate it along streets thick with signboards jutting from the walls. The eye does not see things but images of things that mean other things: propaganda posters point out the tooth-drawer´s house; a tank, troops; halberds, the barracks; scales, scarcity.

Statues and shields depict heroes, martyrs, monoliths, stars: a sign that something―who knows what?―has as its sign a hero or a martyr or a monolith or a star. Other signals warn of what is forbidden in a given place (to enter the ministry with bicycles, to urinate behind the tribune, to fish with your pole from the Malecón) and what is allowed (cursing foreign foes, playing baseball, burning counterrevolutionary corpses).

From the doors of the temples the gods´ statues are seen, each portrayed with his attributes―the ulcer-licking dogs, the newborn-breastfeeding virgin, the machete and the torch of freedom―so that the worshiper can recognize them and address his prayers correctly. If a building has no signboard or figure, its very form and the position it occupies in the city´s order suffice to indicate its function: the palace, the prison, the madhouse, the anti-imperialist school, the brothel. The worms, too, which officers display on their cages are valuable not in themselves but as signs of other things: the illustrated T-shirt stands for exile; the olive-green uniform, power; the volumes of Ché Guevara, forgetfulness; the hard-currency bills, voluptuousness.

Your gaze scans the streets as if they were written pages: the city says everything you must think, makes you repeat her discourse, and while you believe you are visiting Havana you are only recording the myths with which the Party defines her and all her parts.

However the city may really be, beneath this thick coating of signs, whatever it may contain or conceal, you leave Havana without having discovered it. Outside, the land stretches, empty, to the horizon. The sky closes, with static clouds. In the shape that chance and cruelty give the clouds, you are already tired of recognizing figures: a fleeing raft, hands, a drowning goodbye.
  


4.  Havana and memory

Beyond no river and no mountain range rises Havana, a city that no one, having seen it, can forget. But not because, like other memorable cities, it leaves an unusual image in your recollections. Havana has the quality of remaining in your memory point by point, in its succession of broken streets, of houses broken along the streets, and of broken doors and windows in the houses, though nothing in them possesses a special beauty or rarity.

Havana´s secret lies in the way your gaze runs over mute patterns following one another as in a musical score where not a note can be altered or displaced, much less performed. The exile who knows by heart how Havana is made, if he is unable to sleep at night, can imagine he is walking along the streets and he remembers the order by which the frozen clock follows the barber´s stained awning, then the faithful fountain with the dry jets, the commander-in-chief´s concrete tower, the State´s newspaper kiosks, the statue of the hero and the horse, the totalitarian totems, no cafés at any comer, the bus lines that invariably lead to the harbor.

This city which cannot be expunged from the mind is like a skeleton, a honey-comb in whose cells each of us can place the things he wants to remember: names of infamous men, vices, nationalizations, vegetable and mineral calcifications, dates of battles, conspirations, parts of speech. Between each idea and each point of the itinerary an affinity or a contrast can be broken, serving as an immediate aid to memory. So exile´s most learned Cubans are those who have memorized Havana.

But in vain I set out to visit the city: forced to remain motionless and always the same, in order to be more easily remembered, Havana has languished, disintegrated, disappeared. Havanans have forgotten her.



3.  Havana and desire

Havana can be reached in two ways: by ship or by airplane. The city displays one desert face to the traveler arriving overseas and a different one to him who arrives by air.

When the pilot sees, at the horizon of the airport, the military obelisks come into view, the radar antennae, the black and red flags flapping, the chimneys thirsty of smoke, he thinks of a ship. He knows it is a city, but he thinks of it as a vessel that will take him down to the bottom of the sea, a bathyscaphe about to sink, with the waves already announcing the wreck, not yet confessed, or a ghost rowboat with its cadaver crew crying in the cardboard keel. And he thinks of all the Cuban ports, the foreign merchandise the cranes unload no more on the docks, the strictly surveilled taverns where crews of different flags break bottles and boredom over one another´s heads, the heavy, ground-floor colonial windows, each with a Black woman substituting the tempting architecture of a previous Black woman.

In the coastline´s haze, in turn, the sailor discerns the form of an airplane´s withers, a ricocheting rocket with glittering fringe between two trembling wings, descending without ever landing. He knows it is a city, but he thinks of it as an airplane from whose landing gear hang the hopes and hatreds of permanent passengers, sugarcane wine, tobacco leaves, carbonized coffee, and already he sees himself at the criminal cabin of a bomber aircraft taking him away from the crowded wasteland of Florida Straits, toward oases of free expressways refreshed by palmetto trees´ jagged shade, toward palaces of thick, White-watched walls, tiled courts where girls are dancing barefoot, moving their arms, half-hidden by their fake diamonds, and half-revealed by their hungry hearts.

Each city receives its form from the desert it opposes; and so the pilot and the sailor see Havana, a border city between two deserts.


2.  Havana and signs

Travelers return from the city of Havana with distinct memories: a blind black man shouting in the crowd, a lunatic teetering on a mausoleum´s cornice, a girl walking with a poodle on a leash. Actually many of the blind men who tap their canes on Havana´s cobblestones are black; in every mausoleum there is someone going mad; all lunatics spend hours on cornices; there is no poodle that some girl does not raise, as a wish. The city is redundant: it repeats itself so that something can sometimes come to mind.

I too am returning from Havana: my memory includes helicopters flying in all directions, at window level; streets of shops where tattoos are drawn on tourists´ skin; obsolete trains crammed with famished women yet suffering from hypertension. My traveling comrades, on the other hand, swear they saw only one helicopter hovering among the city´s pyres, only one tattoo artist sterilizing needles and improvising inks and pierced patterns on his bench, only one famish woman fanning herself on a bus stop.

Memory is redundant: it repeats signs so that the city can believe it exists.



1.  Thin Havana

Havana, city of the thousand walls, is said to rise over a deep, subterranean oil vein. On all sides, wherever the inhabitants dig long vertical holes in their homes, they succeed in drawing up oil, as far as the city extends, and no farther. Its gray border repeats the dark outline of the buried fuel; an invisible landscape conditions the visible one; everything that moves in the sunlight is driven by the boiling fossil enclosed beneath the rock´s calcareous catacomb.

Consequently two forms of religion exist in Havana.

The city´s gods, according to some people, live in the depths, in the black lake that feeds the underground steams. According to others, the gods live in the buckets that rise, suspended from a cable, as they appear over the edge of the wells, in the revolving pulleys, in the windlasses of the norias, in the pump handles, in the blades of the windmills that draw the oil up from the drillings, in the trestles that support the twisting probes, in the reservoirs perched on stilts over the roofs, in the slender arches of the pipelines, in all the columns of gas, the vertical fumes, the plungers, the drains, all the way up to the weathercocks that surmount the suffocating scaffoldings of Havana, a city that moves entirely upward.



Perhaps, Kastro Khan thought, the empire is nothing but a zodiac of the mind´s phantasms: “On the day when I know all the emblems,” he asked Marco People, “shall I be able to possess my empire, at last?”


And the Havanan answered: “Chief, do not believe it. On that day you will be an emblem among emblems.”

miércoles, 19 de septiembre de 2018

ENCUESTA SOBRE NUEVA CONSTITUCIÓN CUBANA

viernes, 7 de septiembre de 2018

CONVOCATORIA DE CUBA DECIDE CONTRA LA FARSA CONSTITUCIONAL




Cuba Decide convoca a la desobediencia civil ante la Reforma Constitucional del Partido Comunista de Cuba
Propuesta de desobediencia civil ante la Reforma Constitucional del PCC
Imprime y lleva la siguiente propuesta a la Asamblea sobre la Reforma Constitucional. Puedes leerla en la reunión del barrio o del centro de trabajo o de estudios y entregarla para que se anexe al acta. Avísanos por Facebook o info@cubadecide.org o directamente a los teléfonos +5322695367 y +17867176334. Si puedes, publica en las redes y envíanos el video de tu participación.

Si vives en el exterior, puedes copiar y pegar el texto que aparece a continuación en la casilla de “opinión” en la página web de la Reforma Constitucional (https://constitucion.minrex.gob.cu/). Y envíanos a info@cubadecide.org la foto de la pantalla de confirmación de envío de tu opinión en la web de la Reforma Constitucional y tus datos.
La Propuesta
(Anexar al Acta)
En la República de Cuba la soberanía reside en el pueblo, del cual dimana todo el poder del Estado. Por eso, el pueblo debe ejercer el poder constituyente sin atadura a los postulados de un partido único. A tal efecto, propongo:
1. Eliminar todos los artículos y disposiciones del Proyecto de Constitución en consulta, junto con su preámbulo y glosario;
2. Convocar una consulta popular vinculante para que, en ejercicio de su soberanía y en las demarcaciones electorales del país y aquellas que se organicen en el exterior, el pueblo de Cuba decida si quiere darse una nueva Constitución con Asamblea Constituyente integrada por delegados que elijan los propios ciudadanos en comicios libres y plurales, bajo condiciones plenas de libertad de expresión y prensa, iguales posibilidades de hacer campaña, fiscalización ciudadana independiente y observación internacional a fin de garantizar la legitimidad y transparencia del proceso.
En esta consulta vinculante, todos los cubanos con capacidad para ello deben responder libremente la siguiente pregunta:
¿Quiere usted que la nueva Constitución de la República de Cuba se acuerde por Asamblea Constituyente de delegados elegidos en comicios libres, justos y plurales, al amparo de una ley electoral temporal y en ambiente de seguridad democrática, que permita a todos los cubanos la posibilidad de ser nominado y elegido sin otra condición para participar que la nacionalidad cubana?

Sobre Cuba Decide

Somos un movimiento de más de 60 organizaciones disidentes con miles de activistas que movilizan al pueblo cubano para convertirse en agentes de cambio, desafiar el plan de sucesión del régimen y ejercer el derecho a elegir un nuevo futuro democrático.
Nuestra herramienta para empoderar al pueblo cubano: convocar un plebiscito independiente, vinculante y supervisado internacionalmente para invalidar la constitución comunista y comenzar una transición a la democracia. Juntos, recuperaremos nuestros derechos humanos y nuestra autodeterminación, y convertiremos a Cuba en una sociedad libre y democrática donde todos los cubanos puedan prosperar.
Durante casi 60 años, la dictadura ha plagado al pueblo cubano con pobreza, miseria, violencia, represión y exilio. Pero en 2018, es más vulnerable que nunca. Ahora es el momento de tomar el Camino a la Democracia.
Cuba Decide es una organización sin fines de lucro 501 (c) (3). Obtenga más información y únase a nuestro movimiento en cubadecide.org.

About Cuba Decide

We are a movement of 60+ dissident organizations with thousands of activists mobilizing the Cuban People to become agents of change, defy the regime's succession plan, and exercise the right to choose a new democratic future.
Our tool to empower the Cuban People: Convene an independent, binding, and internationally-monitored plebiscite to invalidate the communist constitution and begin a transition to democracy. Together, we will take back our God-given human rights and self determination, and make Cuba a free and democratic society where all Cubans can thrive.
For almost 60 years the dictatorship has plagued the Cuban People with poverty, misery, violence, repression, and exile. But in 2018, it is more vulnerable than ever. Now is the time to take the Path to Democracy.
Cuba Decide is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization. Learn more and join our movement at cubadecide.org.
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jueves, 30 de agosto de 2018

Todos los pocos de patria

Todos los pocos de patria
Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

Cuando vino mi abuela
trajo un poco de tierra española.
Cuando se fue mi madre
llevó un poco de tierra cubana.
Yo no guardaré conmigo ningún poco de patria:
la quiero toda
sobre mi tumba.
CARILDA OLIVER LABRA (1926-2018)


Cuando parecía que nunca iba a morir, ha muerto Carilda Oliver Labra. Tenía 96 años.
Para ser una poeta cubaba, había vivido demasiado.
Vio mundos enteros hacerse añicos en su natal Matanzas, gracias al frenesí energúmeno de la Revolución, capaz de desbaratarlo todo. Incluida la eternidad.
Asistió al holocausto geriátrico de más de una generación. Al final, ya todos sus contemporáneos eran cadáveres. Éramos cadáveres.
Amó como una perra, como una caballa. También, como una libélula. Porque fue hembra como ella sola. Mujer a matarse, mujer de amarrar. Y tardará siglos para parir en la Isla a otra hembra así.
Carilda Oliver Labra, yo te quería.
        Con tus versitos del Ché y Fidel y todo, no me importa. Pero el amor es más grande. Pero el amor es más grande.
Con tu sonrisa de estrella porno profesional, de diva provinciana.
Con tu condescendencia para los cubanos que te singaron a la burdajá, porque el castrismo los convirtió en seres solos y desesperados. Sin Dios y sin Estado. Hombres sin alma, abandonados a sus delirios solipsistas de semen y solidaridad.
Con tu orfandad de hijos. Sé por fin ahora mi madre. Y ámame desde la muerte, mamá. Mira, que ya te extraño.
Con tu bahía de azul coagulada en cada uno de tus ojazos. Una bahía tan abierta como tus patas, aortas abiertazas al estilo de la bahía no tan geográfica como espiritual de Matanzas.
        Yo te quería, Carilda del corazón anacrónico con que exilio ergo existo, con todos los pocos de patria que por fin ya están completos sobre tu tumba.
        Mientras los desconocidos cubanos esperábamos aspaventosamente el fin de la Revolución, tú te estabas muriendo en un silencio hecho de vida y verdad. Y este miércoles de las madrugadas con manantiales de Matanzas, nadie mejor que tú lo sabía.
        Descansa en poema, mi amor.
Mi novia de la otra vida.