The Flyer needs to meet (catch up) w his Trip

(For the young traveler inside you) Real actor: the Poet Virtual actors: the Woman in Red, the Butterflies, and the Green

By: Luix Flow

What can one say nowadays, when all the words had been spoken and in many languages. The fewer left overs that the Poet could catch up, are just laying as uncodified surrealistic decorations inside the chamber of his soul, like small butterflies meeting with each other at a short spring dance among the forest that lays within the silently tangible virtual echoes that rustles in that natural world of the unspoken words. And in this reality of a Now, all the outside visuals are surrounded by a virtual realism that is happening at the same time on thousands of photographic effects that happened to be located and alive inside every cell of the Poets imagination. Containing each one of them, many different green tones that arrange themselves easily outside the forest displaying itself in front of his eyes like a hallucination of the senses exploding in full every morning and with every breath that its been taken. Later, it will blows out through the surface in trillions of leaves among the many in shapes that obey their Here. Both realities: that virtual one and the other one the Poet prefers to call: the green one, melt together and very friendly in a certain special way making the playful butterflies to appear from time to time in between them. And occasionally out of the blue in front of that jungle filled with families of old and young trees, they display their reddish winds in a joyfully, quite tender vulnerable and fragile manner; like the way a young woman walks exposing the delicacies of her body comparable to sensible clouds of red colors moving with subtlety against the pupil of the eye knowing she is vulnerable but feeling protected within the waves of admiration that the Poet throws at her as she is leaving the room she was in seconds before. Now, the four passengers are ready to take off in a new experience: the Poet, the virtual woman in red, the reddish butterflies and the green. The journey goes on between new spaces that they come to discover in a non-linear way as their days unfold while more clouds of different colors keep on arriving at their melting point. The physical location of that scenario can be described as in la Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. One day the Poet decides to squat a house under construction where the interchanges had been delayed off the schedules for the lacks of money and music. The woman keeps on appearing in different shapes and colors, but always with the same essence and aromas. The reddish butterflies play around her all the time, sometimes they grow into letters or words inside the Poets chamber, few times like deep sentences that are pumping out of his mouth as orb bubbles around him and the woman in red. The green is always there, silent as a

witnessing background of many sunsets. Their days unfold together leaving inside lyrics of a song filled with many divergent facets of liberty. One of the fun games the Poet likes to play when he stays for long periods of time around the green background is to play being a cowboy. At this point he finds out that the owner of the land where he squatted that unfinished house, just bought half a dozen of mules and that he wanted to train them to do mule back riding along the pathways of the eco area where the Poet lives, to use them for astonishing just unpacked tourists coming from those countries where the exotic ingredient was destroyed long ago by a system of revenues they called economics. To enjoying in a short period of time, they called vacation, an exit to get out of their boring packed and stressed hollow jobs for a while in a beginning and from an instant they began listening to invisible clogged sounds of liberty that arrived at their borders and shores, then they buy themselves a ticket to real freedom, even if they dont even realize it in full. And if the connection is clear, they come for a mula ride to the bilingual arriero that could distract them while the green, the woman and the reddish butterflies are on and around, playing their roles as being exotic for a while to those new visitors, or just being themselves and unique, although the economics are watching or not and without they knowing their intentions or at least feeling them for a bit The training of the mulas involves several elements: the caressing for them to get to know the cowboy. Moving the mulas to different fields to be feed with fresher grass. Taken care of their immediately needs as healing their bat bites. Protect them from that green flier the Poet likes to call the tsetse mosca, which in reality is just a horsefly. Then healing their skin infections: the regards caused by the ticks in their ears and the bites and kicks made by other mules between their silly games. One morning, like most of the mornings in every January month, when the tourist season is about to expired, schools keep on calling children back to their squared buildings, to be taught a bit more on the how to survive inside the big box. Constructing inside the kids gradually the how to forget all their possible connections they might have with life. Real life that lately is been referred more and more as the holyday spots where their parents might take them later, as the years passed by, and those places will be quoted as the exotic spots where they go to feel away from their again: boring jobs they actually have inside that same blue and green morning frame The sun was in his favorite and daily roll as coloring and nurturing all that he reaches out, springing life from everything from their within as every atom sprinkles with dances inside the spiral of their DNAs, entangling among and around each other in a melting pot of: smells, little noises, movements and the pursuits of sensing themselves and each other to form real eco systems that are referred by those outsiders that love to sit down on tertulias at

sunset at the Coffee Shop for a beer or a cappuccino, launching in their conversations, again, criticisms against the locals and in the how they do their things better in their natal countries, forgetting and without knowing that part of the exotic life is the approach of unique human behaves at some rhythmus within their environmental family . For most tourist businessmen, is just a location area or spot that needs to be developed the American way to get them out of their doom developed stage but enough of the ugly the Poet decides to fly and to catch up with his trip, finding himself, that morning of sun, at nine oclock, performing cowboy mules duties as one of the arrieros been hired at La Fortunas private reserve ranch. The Finca la Fortuna, has 70 hectares of land on about 660 meters over the sea level inside the ecological corridor of La Tagua-Minka-Tigrera in the south west side of la Sierra Nevada of Santa Marta. A corridor that goes up to 2700 meters high in front of the sea, there people could see the majestic of the snow picks surrounded by rivers of clouds seeing like in hush desperation to find their way down into the warm ocean through the canyons of la Sierra. When the landlord at la Fortuna bought the property, it was a bunch of hectares that had been mutilated from their original stage to become grasslands to feed meat into chained supermarkets that loved to eat those kids on holydays. Huskie, an active Italian blooded in his late forties with a strong temper and a wide vision to develop his own dreams with a mathematical mind, had changed the whole surface of the land letting trees to get back, flowers blooming everywhere, and water crossing the area where a bunch of wild animals live, like the howling monkeys. Years later, when the Poet arrived at la Fortuna, the cattle fields became already a private reserve for all and the green. The nearest town up the hill from the squatted house where the Poet lives is called Minka, a small funky town with different stories about its upbringing and a sure history of violence throughout the last 30 years. Minka had become after all a Caribbean spot for relax after the party at Taganga, where business and the colors of the magic in many of the inhabitants had melted around it to make of the place a chilling place to hang out, eat out, go extreme with the bikes and in the rivers, and just be yourself without the demands of a city. Seeing how the shores exploded against the dark rocks in front of the castle where Pablo Neruda lived in that corner of the world with few fishermen in Valparaiso, makes our Poet to think about those names behind the sparkles of the water that inspired in that seas background Neruda for not just his life but along the feelings that touched the deeps of life inside him as he touches with his eyes the horizon of

his front yard. Meanwhile here at la Sierra Nevada, the Poet has a different background and the waves behind it, are invisibles substitutes fed by winds of changes that move and dance around the green like a fairy in love, hitting on the Poets questioned face making the reddish butterflies to start their fly as the sun embraces all the picture and words begin to showed up on empty pages of scrambled sentences with a woman that is not dressed in red, she is different, more like the Poets old friend back in his Pacific trip when he met Constanza. Today the woman appears in different colors, come to the Poets life when he is thinking on Nerudas scenario as in its most silent thought. She is also as silent in hers 1.85 meters over the ground, pinky fair skin, blue like the sky at sunset pupils that let the bubbles of their conversations, form gentle appearing like hummingbirds showing up and disappearing fast before one knows after one short second of a sharp and sweet look in the eyes of the static flying bird. This woman is not dressing for an occasion; her name is Rubi, wearing just an overall and a long sleeve short in red and white squares to protect her from wild invasions of mosquitos bites. Her hand is continuously touching a pale hay middle long hair hidden and shouting those intelligent eyes, letting her red lips speak rivers of flows of a forgotten song made by a lonely cowboy about the tickly tacky houses where people prefers to hide themselves. The woman moved out for a second or two, disappearing and appearing for seconds that feels like an eternity for him, bringing up with her the reddish butterflies, leaving the Poet alone within his moments of solitude among the verses of creation inside thoughts of yelling in silence like calling his brothers at the kosmos, and he starts to see above the empty spaces followed by invisible winds. The shapes of the bamboos benches and the leaves against an orange almost half moon on the grow into the Poets re-knocked corners of his soul where verses fly from Bangkok to Shanghai and Singapore, where naked dirty foot fingers walked alone their beaches on empty surfaces crossing the lines of underlined and submitted unseen hushed voices to the vicious dark complicates and manipulates life of the underworlds up from the dirty toe into a penis of same conditions and into a mouth and eye of guilty shadowy ideas in bringing somebody down from the contract made out of blood over a table full of guns and stash that the skinny teen whore dressing all in red looked as if that table breath the only air available in the room and could in a special way feed her veins with the golden flow of H been able to zoom their lives into an unreal poem written in any dirty angle of a bungalow over any beach or cafe in Paris after several months of traveling a world full of magical insanities and a bunch of beautiful raw contradictions, because from the eye of a hooker down there and behind the poem, the white writer was also an exotic bird, not just to watch it, but to inter mingle the tourist experience of his dollars, his camera, the silly bermudas shorts and the flip-flop shoes that match a

two weeks bear and an uncared brown hair filling anything else on the looks that fascinates more the hooker making him an exotic piece for the Shanghai oriental eye. The look of his eyes resembling streets of autumns and winters inside Cafes of late Paris and Barcelona, drinking until late evenings reading a book or chatting like a cat inside an unedited film of 33 mm with music of Leone and the smoke of a Cuban cigar in a London brothel same as those Churchill used to smoke. That glare that resembles the young unpaid hooker an exotic confidence of his conviction of superiority over the rest of the planet they called third worlds. The exotic bamboos keeps on vibrating harmonies of waves moving slowly and towards in certain ways, making all the existence around her fit inside a photo sequence from Bangkok to Shanghai where at the same exactly moment passes through the Poets eyes scanning and rich horizon while he is observing the screen of his visions. Suddenly he grabs a notebook from his backpack laying under the hammock that he refrains to open it since long time, alleging laziness or not feeling in the mood to write a single word. This time he began... the wet naked foot of Jessie girl, against the old brown roofy tiles of a London house, seems to washed away her pains under a pissing rain that helps cleaning her most inner fears into the light of been free for the first time, even when she refuses to pull out those strings of first pains when she recall at his stepfather as the night he started to doing her at early age of 12 knowing her mother didn't do anything to stop him. At finca la Fortuna, life were slowly opening the next morning, birds displaying the best what they do jumping and flying from tree to tree each with their particular singing while the Poet watched them trying to figured out their kind among the many that inhabit la Sierra Nevada. One of the first ones to show up was the Oropendolas that in reality, thought the Poet, they should be doing their long and hollow nice nests around his pad. Then a couple of Toucans flying over the high bamboos and then around into the other creek on the other side of the hill, then showed up the hummingbirds displaying their speed and friendliness in front of him producing their strong sound of the winds, looking for few seconds into the Poets pupil and turning fast into the next wall pulling something out from the whole that the Poet couldnt figure out what it was leaving an air of change around. Then at last those reddish headed woodpeckers picking down trees surfaces and looking at the Poet as they stopped. Rubi appeared again, the deep blue solitude of her eyes without a sign neither of emptiness nor unhappiness or loneliness. Her solitude was due to a fact of feeling disenchanted inside her youth and surrounded by trillion of silly teenagers with

potential in many directions but at the same time lost in a lost world that could offered them many possible highways to claim up their dreams on top of a death dreamer. But Rubi was different, she knew about those tricky tacky houses of the fallen dreams, and she didn't want to waste her life anymore in the pursues of false directions, so she quitted school at early age of 15 even though she was over the ceiling of the bus, touching with her hair places too short for being so tall, but her nice not yet concluded formed curves and the curly lines of her metaphors that clinked like unwritten poems to the Poets mind as she passes through the chunky friendly people inside the bus in hot too hot sunny Santa Marta city on the magic and exotic land of Gabo called Macondo as shows on the maps made in Colombia. For the Poet himself, leaving or entering any virtual reality, was as easy as inserting himself in any other reality of his own at the moment his observation derived absolutely from what the background has to offered not just at every moment but specially at sunset. His long hours watching the sunsets laying in his blue sort of ragged out and about to break very soon hammock he got from his parents home, from those forgotten ones that survived all the thousands of the trips to Ladrilleros when his dad used to bring all his family at that part of the Pacific ocean when the Poet was a little boy experiencing changes and those new things that come with puberty. He creates afternoons where he just sits watching changing horizons like sunsets, feeling an slow passing mellow wind while some of the music fill with expectations sprang from out of a background he also just invented. The woman was dressing in red and playing with green leaves of the background, she approached the lonely Poet, thinking that otherwise he wont ever in any eventuality, should get closer to her; it wasnt in her system, she thought, he only likes to ride his white tall horse in solo mode. His boots where laying in the corner next to a set of guns like coming out of a comic book, inside their leather cartridge, expecting to jump in fast actions only known by that same lonely Poet. She looked to the other side of the hammock to find an sleeping dog, those kind mixed in estrange combinations of many wild lost unwanted dogs females getting results of a weird but nice looking race of a pitbull face, brown reddish skin color with those dark zebra lines like a dangerous tiger all along his backbone. The woman in red finally made it to the hammock and feel like interrogating the sleepy man laying inside with a dusty dirty old cowboy hat that covered his head while a tune escaped from his earphones that the woman couldnt identify the sound in a sort of a mix between Lucinda Williams and Judi Holland contradiction in red! Arent you ever gonna put me in your new video mister?

The Poet slowly, like in slow motion, moved his hand upwards as to remove the dirty hat out of his vision and when his green eyes came out into the light, he saw a black eyed woman dressing too all in red with high hills and a challenging pose as her hands on her hips let some of her power gleaming through the movement of her fingers going up and down expecting a prompt answer from the man inside the hammock while her right foot stands up front on top of the shoe hill moving it in slow motion and in both directions in a desperate and impatient attitude hide in her beauty and hair What the heck you are doing in the middle of this jungle dressing like a whore?.

She shocks on the cowboys answer and tried to said something back to him, but her lips freeze and tremble a lit bit in her hidden nerviest as the Poet watch her dark sweet eyes been half hide it behind the bunch of her reddish hair as it comes slowly into her face once again while he is picking up his hat waving a polite goodbye as she began vanishing into the colors of the afternoon. That afternoon was hitting the dawn of the day. A dog was pissing against an empty tree that was busy throwing its yellowish leaves into the transitory autumn between the two strong seasons, one of intense heat and occasional winds, and the other one of intense rains. Year 2012 was moving in its spring, the local citizens of the funky town walked up and down covering in no hurry at all their shores as if Hendrix were playing for them Hush now- seven mulas appeared behind the huge tree near Eduardo`s old store, they all tide up to each other by the neck with dirty old ropes and the bilingual arriero at front heading up to the Coffee Shop where he supposed to meet a party of German policemen on vacation ready for trekking a ride into the jungle up there in la Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. Back there behind all mulas, showed up at last with his cowboy hat, the Poet dressing in a dirty white t-shirt and his old wearied Kmart boots with those thick construction sole and the steal toe end to protect him from all disadvantages there from the wild that always lay it on the pathways. He was pushing and wooing the mulas from behind to bring their walk into a more rhythmical and faster walk since, for the Poet, they just didn't feel like walking at all, just like him. The Poet rides Luna, the dark 10 years old female nice, sweet but some fears to the unknown. There among the Germans, was this huge giant captain with a shaved head and the look of a Nazi back then in those years. At the beginnings of the morning, he was all nice words and ager to finished the six hours ride around Minka through the Vuelta a Oriente, while the other guy seemed more relaxed or scare to hell

bringing images of kidnapping into his brain all mess up with real pictures inside a ride far away from safe and comfy home with a couple of unknown Colombian cowboys, hiding his thoughts with the silly tourist smile while traveling green wonderland that matched his deorbited eyes as they get bathed by rivers of exotic leaves of all sizes that make the other guy send a comment in German about how every corner looks just like a post card. Later at midday, the big guy comment had a turn on the saddle as the journey deep it into time; he became silent and murmuring unclear words of unsatisfied feelings with a sense of anger. For the Poet, mule ridding was just a fun thing he loves to do, even those duties after the ride were fun for him as he shared all sort of stuff with the animals, even though their stubborn attitude help the slowness to respond to orders and the spooky reactions at situations. After the journey and as the day went down, the woman in red approached again the sleepy cowboy, she felt an odd smell coming from his boots, she knit for a second, then stop one part of a second, doubted but continued... * I am here dressing like this, `cuz you got me from a different movie, and all of the sudden, I found myself surrounded by smells, invasions of mosquitos a dirty guy that I suppose is part of my creation and my reality, who else is around, and took a sarcastic look to the dog and said, who is this dog and what is doing here anyway?

The reddish butterflies were playing around the woman in red all the time, and as she had no response from the cowboy, she pressed a button in the virtual front screen from her with one of her fingers, the one that says Play and a bolero from Joe Cuba began slowly his entrance as she was experiencing changes in her dress and body. Her new green lite short matches a yellowish mini top, while her naked feet showed a dark skin honeyed by the sun. He eyes now yellow and her hair of a Cuban mulatta played in movements with her hips that now moved easy as the music was unfolding around her it seems that you fit into it very well, said the cowboy with a smile

But the woman in red wasnt the only female shape that appears inside the Poets imagination. Sometimes this other mulatta with huge playful black eyes and fair skin came to visit the Poets mind, her name was Maria, and the Poet likes to call her Maria Mulata. Maria Mulata has a bulk for hair like a Rasta that just woke up. She lived in this green house with a view to the ocean down there by Tayrona National Park. She loved to sit on a cliff and watch how the waves break under her feet springing up

life to the rocks and small animal life around it. The sailboats against the horizon bring into the picture a romance of ideas to Maria; ideas of pleasured instants to an eye clicking moments of inspiration to be framed in black and white spaces inside rooms of whole galleries events to someone who has the sensibility of feeling the painting where the woman was in. But Maria Mulata, besides being sit on the edge of the cliff, a beautiful and special place with the view to half of the ocean and half of the colored sky; she was the Poets interpretation of his intentions and focuses as he was taught as a little boy, on that way she might live by the cliff, but next second she might be brought out into her creators imagination or into a dream. The Poet was at that moment, giving out a conference to a bunch of smart kids, teens and young people inside a huge auditorium at the Santa Monica College in California; next to him, and sitting on a nice Indian pillow and dressing like one, is Maria Mulata. He is standing while he does the speech and sometimes sits next to the mulatta woman as the young audience is watching... Tonight is the kid inside me who is talking to you -began the Poet, the same guy who writes those lyrics, the same whom learns from you as well as we advance forward. Apparently inside your presumptions, I might not look as one of your pals, but if you let go of the taught being set inside your magical undiscovered perceptions, you will find that we are all now playing the same game and rebelling against the same those ideas from past generation of adults that wanted to place inside our minds their important taught based on the economics. Its vital to overcome it; otherwise it might hurt in many ways the normality of our evolution. The process that involves the writing words into an empty page, is as sweet as the printing of a wave against the stones he paused and looked at Maria Mulata with an smile and continued, on a wonderful cliff where the winds had expanded and stopped reality to begin the fly... I started writing not because i might have or not talent for it, instead I am doing what I`m doing, because I am not afraid of being rejected anymore, and I am not here pretending, I am just myself against the illusions. The Alcatraz screams as it passes by Maria Mulata, and she raises her head to wave a salutation to the bird with her black eye. The pupil of the woman reflected the deep blue of the living ocean next to her, and in it appeared the body of another female; she was the young and wild Rosa Blue and her crazy sister Rosa Roja.

The stepson the ground marked the big foot of Rosa Blue; a peasant daughter with sweet blue eyes and a whole lot of a bunch of tar color hair down to her breast. Her sister, tall, serious and out of her mind with brown hair same color of her light bright eyes that follow her. They were heading into the main store; the Poet was silent contemplating them as they passed slowly in slow motion. The Poet captured a bamboo field in all green sticks behind them. A red path going down the hill in a solitaire store, everything else a desert like the Guajira coast with few red flamingos here and there at the horizon. The Poet concentrate in one specific matter after receiving their aroma of their fake smiles: Rosa Blue track of her footprints traces behind her as they waved goodbyes with their fingers. The Poet looked down at the distance searching for the store were they supposed to go, but it was nothing there, closed his eyes for half of a second and seven mulas were passing by as he opened his eyes again, down behind them some dark cowboy follows screaming in desperation, the Poet looked back scanning for the sisters again to find only the footsteps of Rosa Blue, he clicked again his pupils and found himself alone into the hammock writing a poem while a couple of reddish butterflies were playing around in the middle of a summer in Sierra Nevada.

The poems crackdown inside my soul words died before they are really born cuz I am not a good guest to the cities I am like a sea drop on a cliff that when it splashes the elements on the rocks it opens the poems that carry the heart

I am the son of an ocean vessel captain sailor a pirate from the oceans of the old waves that from the pinnacle of a green hill I would like to watch in how the sea slowly moves among salty waters of silent liquid volumes

that divides all thoughts in little pieces and separates all living cliffs.

Orion was the name of this only male of couple of years young mule with zebra stripes on his legs. The young mule cries when is left alone like an small baby, feeling alone and away from the herd. In times when the cowboy goes around for a ride with Orion through the jungles of the Sierra Nevada of Santa Marta and he wants to rest, he goes down on his feet and leave Orion tide up to a pole and he notices that the mule starts looking at him with this look of why I'm not resting too in a better place where I can also have some grass to eat. Mules can eat the twenty four hours of the day and young Orion is not an exception. The other day the cowboy crashed his emotional tensions with one of the mules. Conflicts of decisions and he bang Orion on his face with anger into his invented effected frustrations, to find out later on the day that the speed Orion moves and his stubborn are just in that exact moment, a part of sequences of effects in a kosmic decision for a reason. Then after the self-guilt as he sees the animal eye been hurt, the cowboy forgot about it and went back to his hammock. The cowboy and the Poet were two separate characters and the same. They both wanted badly to split their personalities and go alone without the supervision of the other one. To stop falling into conversations such contradictions of ideologies, positions, etc. The reddish butterflies stopped their game of chasing each other around the flowers on the green background. The sunset approached in la Sierra and the salty air of the ocean broke all light in that horizon, leaving in front of the Poets eyes a wide blue line leaving the green below as it was being cut between their middle line by a yellowish orange and purple red waist stripe. now that you alone, your sole purpose is to do your best at any moment here while you remain as a drinking cup of the elixir in and of the great existence said the woman in red. Not so much thinking comes and goes when in the air the density gets dry and heavy. Destructive thoughts of envy flow trying to compensate selfish actions of economic aspects. Inside the Poet and the cowboy, are still fractions of undo conflicts. Internal conflicts not yet solved by anyhow; and the background of la Sierra Nevada had been lately being colored by an external influx of unknown domains from the Viking world of ancient and the Mediterranean flow of waters. There are tendencies in some of the new corners to mis-appreciate and mishandle

their behaviors in their own languages among the locals. They dont want to know better, theyve being educated in secluded chambers that propagate superiority from their top economic position looking down when it comes to see the rest of their political world. The cowboy was one of them, and the Poet was poisoned with the attitude that he represents as he approaches the winds around their boundaries. Around 1940 was the time that marked the junction when the Grey ones began their associations with the cowboys. They, the cowboys, stopped working at their healthy agricultural fields like la Finca La Fortuna, and moved into country business with dysfunctional protocols based in fear using manipulation tools to applied against the same society they run. And there was the Poet, standing between poles of friction; because the cows just follow their rider in his big horse through the empty prairie on the horizon. Things got obscured by clouds. The Poet felt himself in a way suffocated by a thick air of unconscious moves of projections coming from his thoughts which lately they focused on leaving the economics and flew into the Ninfas valley of distanced buds where cows where few. But he stills needed to figure out an stress-free exit due to the fact that he was full of innate creativity but empty on gas. The good sides of the possibilities have another detail: that the background remains even greener, the reddish butterflies still played around, and that the woman there was wearing a bikini around a cold water pool. Moving and stirring out the electric poles of the Poets blue song in order to caress fields of flesh tender and curved smooth lines of shapes in a female body that was perfect to inspire the ending thoughts to drive him free in there and projected them for eternal seconds, pushing him into forgetting the economics around the assholes. That bikini woman was the help to meet of that nice guy, she has Viking looks, was polite funny and truthful, with a cool camera and a bear of three months named Hercules from Norway walking next to his one meter ninety high beautiful queen. Thoughts of Rubi arrived, that silent fair girl from Australia. He remembers of Rubi all the presents she offered to him in the couple of days they stayed together at La Fortuna with her father, and as the Poet guided them through the jungle and into a double floor waterfall up the hills, forty five minutes away by walk. He remembers how she offers him the pleasures of seeing her swimming in the clear transparent water, and the reflection of her tall body diving inside the element like a pale dolphin very slowly and gratefully moving.

The best offer a woman has to give, are the movements of her body gracefully thinking and feeling orchestrated actions to display to a point of interest for the joy and the appreciations. He looks with intensity the human subtle forms as Rubi handles couple of her body and head moves, and how she dives her hair into the waters managing it to go all the way to her back with the magic of an existential beauty. The Poet couldnt miss one of her moves since she was given them away with desires of exposition while her daddy dozed next to the Poets chair. Then in their way back home by the path surrounded by bunch of bamboo pots moving freely with the wind and all of the rest of the greens in many of their shapes and dimensions that arisen to the senses, filled with all type of birds accompanying with their singing while Rubi managed her walk to be behind the Poets while he talks of songs of freedom and gratitude. Then she moves at front pulling up her shirt a little showing intentionally a skin softly touched by the sun without being afraid of unknown consequences. Although the Poet fascinated by her energy looked at the taller woman as she walks leaving behind a paradise of visual effects like phantasy magic's that decorates their conversation making the reddish butterflies to transform into words of a metaphoric song of Love as they reached out back home. Moon at rising red and smiley almost behind the hill looking for the Santa Marta sea

Waters of Sunsets colors of mangoes Creation at its most extreme point sensations of Love at sight

Shapes of smiles moving slowly inside lips of sweet voices bringing tender aromas

into the conflicts of men

No one remembers next day only the poems survive as witnesses of attractions inside the flies of the writer.

When the idea to have a place rooted with feelings and remembrances comes, the bird as an element of compliments in a story, hovers and all the awaked elements leaved behind as trails of uncompleted roses began to disappear and a whole new transformation occurs as the Sun keeps on shinning strong. That awakens followed up for a while survives until it needs to change of its architectonical designs inside the big picture for it to go away or to be forgotten, because the memory is already filled with them as it was the construction materials choose to be used in the built of the box where the brain keeps all those souvenirs. Flying is hard because of the weight of all those remembrances. Sometimes because of the melting taste that remains within like a wound that hurts inside the oceans of sadness. The Poet plays the kid outside these environments, like he is not feeling anything from behind his own past locations where he abided. But at his solitude, the blues is there and it is expressed in the lyrics and songs he reads:

Despues de la despedida (cuts from A.M.Mutis)

El momento llego de la partida es hora ya de que el viajero ande lloras y eres ms bella entristecida yo estoy triste tambin, y amo mi herida pues s que es el dolor lo nico grande

que hay en medio del barro de la vida.

Estamos juntos sin decirnos nada tu amor perfuma, mi pasin florece

and he left and she is gone. The train departs with the mechanics of sounds that will prevail for the many years to come inside his ears. And today they remain as fractions inside the fractal of a feeling the colors passed too bringing the essences of a love not yet forgotten. Meanwhile the green background keeps on growing even in the dryer season at the La Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. The trees pulled in their leaves as if they shrank some inches inside, to save energy until the first clouds of the raining season arrived and it decides to change the environment. At the distance a farmer hired some labor men to be pay by the journal of the days. With machetes a crew of male humans goes on the business killing and destroying all the green wild forest to make proper place in order to plant new crops nourished with unused chemicals in other lands whom are trade it at the local stores at cheaper prices that the campesino keep on thinking is the modern cool alternative to do something really civilized and inside that old pirates town named Santa Marta, the Poet sees those trees at the distance of the hills and in the how they might feel something as they fall down in si lent procedures but they dont really die at all knows the Poet. All that wood and branches including the organic leaves will become eventually a natural compost after they burned down into the fire of the local Caribbean farmers, for a new ground, for the economics of survival and the greed invented long ago in old England and promoted with drums and millions of propaganda at planetarian level by those immigrant Pharisees in the land of the United States with the lots of the visuals billed by the banks and the movie producers that own the right to write what needs to be done for their good. Next morning after the Fire, in this lineal encounter of the events, the Poet received a letter from his mom. The letters from daddy were although containing same elements: he an engineer into business wrote of numbers negotiations and pushing his own feelings into him to know when his son the one that worries him more, became a real poet, and when he is coming back home to see if daddy can, still after all these years, change his sons mind and track him into the economics. On the contrary; the Poets mother wrote of metaphorical thoughts about the garden where her flowers are planted around her for the mother woman was a big

gardener above her that could count the leaves of the trees in the Autumn of her patch and received in his/her inner lap all the dry leaves in order to restored them and send them back to the starving trees on Earth. In that lineal life of actions, this rectilinear story about or around the Poet without name, inside each day of all of his as if they were only one, developing inside the corners of a waterfall springing out and down fluids of abstract verses that at the end they formed together in a substance that was able to transform the rocks where the vital water shakes in the down of her way to the sea. On that way, were a huge stone to be hit and mold, activated and bend into shapes or into different forms and that was for the Poet: the painful path of releasing his inner lizard organism in order to shape himself differently through the years coming in order to convert into a different being. He was hopping to grow into something else and as different as an star kid or a Pleyadian or something of the liken, bending his inside rock to received Light properly from the outer kosmos and into his deep sacred soul in order to do the changes that embrace the diverse colors that might fed his spirit in the long run filling it with other sounds and lyrics helping a lot out the limited body of him and see if he can become outside a magical being of that new Earth. The first step or priority was to get rid of the cold cowboy. Now he was approaching a life according to his new growing and observations: things like learning how to fly like the Sierra Nevada birds, ability to jump in any direction into the abysm of the cliffs and into the jungle of the Trees, and being able to spring like a cat, swim inside the pools of the creeks like a small river fish and share the oxygen inside in the calm of a sweet afternoon. He wanted to climb up the waterfalls as a spider or a salamander and have a couple of small tinny wings in his ankles to fly around the Milky Way those adaptations, he knew, needed a shift of the magnetic pole and alignment in the solar system into the Milky way and a bit of luck to survive the imminent fall of the economics in his planet right now. It is like the Little Prince he explored the worlds of his Baobabs and melted within other different species in order to get to know more about their limitations and perspectives on the exactly how work their dreams as he visit them one by one. With a small difference of the Poets than any other little princes as he entangles out from within the invisible light links of each into an invisible growing spider web within a planetarian system with the loving hope of serving and protecting the variations of each one and for the good of all together. Sometimes the trip of the flyer had become quiet obscure after the Poet began to separates from the lizard cowboy. One of those consequences of being around the lizard race for too long impulses the Poet to begin having feelings of repulsiveness

against many mister foreigners since they happening arriving on the many from the economic boxes of their habitats, knowing the Poet that he has also difficulties to intercommunicate with the locals as well as in the everyday basis and more and more feeling like a wild animal being pushed out of his natural environment in the name of a progress that at the end it brings into extinction those singular creatures and the natural greens to locate them just off from the monopoly of the games. Its exactly what the gamers always look after as N. Chomsky put it in many of his writings. The Poet didnt want to get involve himself into the sensations of the extreme flew over the next cuckoos nest. He knew he needed to keep on moving up the hill and away from the reflections of the phantoms of that paradise. He have his backpack packed with the minimum stuff, and in a sunny morning he began his trip up la Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta looking for a new home another tomorrow of temporally nests along his journey where he could deposit the eggs of his creations. He felt along that path and after all, that the first place he left was the family nest. For him was already forgotten and those other secondary places along the road will be just like adjustments made on that rock from the waterfall of his own person as human being, as a man in search of Freedom like the unlucky Alex Supertramp but with precautions, knowing now at this point that mistakes due to the lack of knowledge are in many vital ways: fatal inside the inextensible law of surviving and to keep him Alive. Another important aspect in the Poets new personality was the romantic way he likes to interweave feelings he has for people outside of him: Love fibers coming from a heart of emotions at move when he used to live with the cowboy , he deleted any one of those moods with a bad vibration outside his internal system; but today he feels an intense deep sorrow in the center of his heart of feelings as an air passes by fast leaving behind a trail of confusions and creating dense layers of pain inside the owner of the bad wind: the cowboy, like a heavy rock falling into an harmonic pool of clear waters that leave the spectator, in this case: the Poet, thinking in ways of how to restore damaged liaisons after the waves are gone, a harmful repercussion that at the end affects the whole planet as well. Among any effects or any influences of energy waves that pass through the village where the Poet lives, must be some external facts, since it flows around the world hitting also the small funky village and then kept on circulating and circulating. The Poet likes to think that the wave has repetitive cycles in its behavior and that it might keep on coming back and for within kosmic precedence in any way possible to deposit as it passes a lyric of Love that might overflow the receptive vessels.

As for the Poet, he gets the hit of Love inside a melting pot together with the economics. He feels unable to sense pure Love from the lira of Cupids songs as he kept on throwing the arrows everywhere else. The Poet sits around some people he knows at the Coffee Shop, and he knows well that his own mind is out there alone inside the observation meadows searching inside the Global Network for the virtual engines of his own imagination, finding the young females moving up and down the dirty roads of Minca busy talking and in pursuing of something else unknown for them at their moment. The way they dress up and the little of color in their faces plus the subtle moves of their hairs shows clear that the kosmic hit touched them gentle and good. The Poet feels all that on the chair he sits as he looks at them on that evening of a mellowed tertullian. Sometimes he finds himself even chatting without a proper interest with them, which make him feels as he was out of the lyric of Love that the wave passed and caught him inside the economics' river by choice because of his worries for money and by his hidden sorrows that the cowboy inside him left behind as tails glue them to the aura of him worries and dreams unfulfilled mixed in that pile of the bad weeds smoked with the pipe of self-destruction. Next morning as the Poet wakes up, his mind tells him that the rainy season is approaching strong and that he is still swimming in a flood of insecure muds of the wrong elements the Poet stops his inner analysis and goes direct to the middle of the yesterdays tertullian chat inside his mind, to answer a question of musical values on the table to the same familiar faces he knows but stops again, holds an acoustic guitar that somebody drops fast on him and he began now searching for those forgotten tunes he used to know well there in the wild years before because of his present blue melancholic attitude nurtured that time by the insanity of the cowboy inside him, making him sing together a country sad song moving his fingers up and down the guitar neck feeling at the same time the wood and the metallic sense of the strings that recreate together a nice comfortable riff of harmonic sounds, then he goes back to the D note and tries to remember a K. Kristofferson song about an imprudent oky preacher son lost inside the world of the economics and with a smoking gun in his left hand throwing bullets of desperation elsewhere suddenly! it all explodes around and inside the Poets. The acquaintances dont really heard what he is singing and inside the Poets brain began to unfold a mad river of unstable realities that added more unbalanced rituals to his already lonely and solitude abysm of his own spirit due to the empty space left inside him by the cowboys departure. It wasnt a Sunday in that small village. Small funky kind of town is Minca with a hidden magic visible only for those special visitors with about four hundred villagers including the country men living in the

surroundings areas. Melting point of races, says a German married to a pescadito African blood woman from Samaria with three kids born in the Macondo dusty village. The locals a mix of different migrations from inside and outside the country and back in the history of the Caribbean lands that shaped the skins and bloods of the native people. The unliterary life of the Poet trying to fit in that picture framed with historic contradictions, based on his improvisations and in the how those arrows might hit the unexpected questions to be solved as perspectives that appeared to him from the different corners impulse by the winds sometimes of the economics and some other times from the funny or sarcastic actions of the local residents, resulting in a linear day by day life that he tried to build using the experiences of the results in order to shape his inner personality in midst of his own humanity if he wanted to sail the waters of the living days more and more accurately to feel the independence in the sea of the shorter thoughts and the monster actions where the locals like to launch themselves in the everyday as they search for powers, controls, greeds and survivals of their dreams attached to boats without anchors. In that ocean of the egos colored by a background of the greens, the Poet visited the garden of the flowers with the woman in red. In that field of open blooms dancing between each petal of their different essences, thousands of reddish butterflies gathered around them. The Poet sensed inside the confidentiality of his thoughts a secured way to express right there many feelings out that they been holding in for too long ideas and wild thoughts that all together could be spoken out out of his system and to let them be cultivated by the flowers of the soft field. Some kind of action that not too often could be realized and done in the other fields without being exposed to be hurt by the mega egos that polluted the land of plenty. Every time you asked me out, leave me with incomplete feelings inside cuz you change very easily and disappear very fast I didnt have feelings for you only nice-looking replied calmly the Poet to continue after a briefly pause as he looked at the beautiful and expressive eyes of the woman in red I extended my heart in rivers of admiration towards the powers of the bodies and the flowing of the tongue in its line of expressions like the ones of Maria Mulata, and also he paused again I love the truth involved behind the thoughtful silence of beautiful blue eyed Rubi Then dont leave me in oblivion all alone , I am willing to joint you and your other two mermaids that sculpt your inspired moments I am willing to

contribute with all I have to recreate the exquisiteness of your great creativity in any way possible I am, after my trip is done, feel kina lost being around these humans I dont care whos around nothing seems to be of any value of the whole worthy inside them whoever has some good within is also half shit there, just like me look at me woman, is my nature I am getting sick of having to have to deal everyday with the same shit from the outsides and my own bullshit in the insides. Well, my lover of the dreams, that is a little bit too depressive to being take it into consideration

At the far distance on the field, were coming Maria Mulata and Rubi. Maria Mulata was naked from the shaved head to her feet as she walked making dancing moves with the lines of her perfect animal body though beautiful and provocative and also smiling like a goddess with the naturality of her voice speaking powerful female singings words flying as birds, and above her making a company in the unexpected visit to the Poet, was Rubi, also flying with her little smile as white as her wheat long and playful hair loosed in purpose bringing into the frame small particles of dust from far away stars as the wind caress her with tenderness. The both females arrived very close to where the Poet was sitting under the enormous leafy and woodsy Fig Tree in the middle of the huge endless flowers field next to the woman in red. Lovely day to meet said in a welcome smiling way Maria Mulata, is so nice to be here around you darling my best friend while Rubi was landing in her feet silent as always and her little smile He decided to bring us all at once here today but even amid the lov eliness of this breathing of life from around us, he seems to be quite a bit depressing or in a way frustrated cuz the circumstances that are happening inside him in his pursuits into his trip told the woman in red to the other two females and kissed both as greetings in both cheeks. The surrealistic thoughts of my creativity whispered the Poet, dont fit in at all within this reality. I cant get to make them boost to fit into this format paused the real search for die Reise nach Nirgendwo, keeps on spinning around and I dont see it well at all, even attached to the insides of me I thought we were your dream unproven the mulatta woman as she gentle touched the Poets forehead with soft fingers looking at him deeply as Rubi moved behind him standing there with a book of poetry in her left hand

looking at the group from up there on her meter eighty five position inside her fifteen years of age brain as quiet as ever but swimming inside the ocean of her eyes filled with many whales and dolphins the kept on coming up into the surface of that sea of her blue eyes to chant songs from other oceans and other aquatic planets where Joy was silent but eternal Well, at least a feeling of family hood entangles our existences said trying to help the woman in red, lets all together look for the trip, lets fly like a flock of seagulls beyond these shores of stuffy cliffs that already gave what they have as inspirational odes contributing with our poem next step is completely unknown

The Poet looked at the woman in red from up and down and saw how wrong she was dressing all the time still with those pair of high hills that prevent her from moving freely same with her short and tide and provocative red dress. Change your cloths now woman he hesitate, keep the red with a yellowish canvas booties with sock of stripped colors, a loosed skirt fresh down to your knees of red and purple combinations, a small T-top of orange backgrounds made of cotton materials and an indigenous design at front lots of stuff with different color hanging from your wrist lose your hair free from that stylish vogue haute couture, wash up your face off from cosmetics and hang some cool things around that long fair neck you have and relax, I cannot have stressing thoughts around myself but my owns he looked around and said to the mulatta girl: I like the way you cut your hair Maria you are perfect, then extended his hand and hold Rubis hand few seconds later, the four friends departed as they flew over the flowers field with little wings that appeared on their knees, followed by a trail of thousands of reddish papillones leaving behind them their skins as the shake of the fly changed her coverings into an incredible mantle of vivid colors fitting the new tones as they all reached there in the horizon a small little green colorful planet in the middle of the dark blue background of the empty spaces in the center of the Milky Way.

End.