The voice was panic Poem by Chus Pato

The voice was panic
and wanted, insisted on having its way in the poem
………………

but not everything can be transported (not the voice, obviously)

yes the spirit that invades the bard, between sharp briars

and because it's raining, the poem's inhabitants have to open their umbrellas // grab everything they brought in and run outside to find shelter

[only because you've stuck your nose in the text can I proceed to solutions]

this is what Mr. Amiable does, he makes alienated beings appear in the world and, much to his regret, as free persons

but only the voice fills the three tales
the voice that writing doesn't cover

as such, a poet is an ancient being.

Instead of letting the world into the poem,
the poet kicks writing out, like a pleasant and transparent lava, muslin

all this sky
all this springtime

you see, this is a political act: wresting the will from all those who obey

but without context.

And where to write it down!, for paper doesn't last and all that's imaginable is a wall and the digital projection of letters (clearly in a museum or on freeway signs) or those same phrases looping the bodies of travellers as if with luminous sashes as they dialogue on the flight of birds or the hovering of falcons that blend in with the trees when they spread their wings like a nest

theory is that ethical violence of the intangible

and is the problem of the I, how many? and of situations

I prefer my panic on entering bookstores, leaving you behind, who abandon me everywhere, without money, or in the car with no handbrake. We visit a city to recall the edifices of cities

dreams are not theory, and now we're stuck here because you're loathe to wake up in this palace of privatized urbanization, alongside so many others whose condition we share. Tonight our murderers are drunk or shut in the toilet

once and for all, nothing hermetic, or cryptic (which we never write anyhow) and I send it into orbit, with all our splendid manures and heathers.

And do you notice how truth is sweeter when you linger shoeless, weightless?, in the placenta of alders

**

the synapses are back, the disquieting April flowering