well I have it. The Flu. Greg has been carrying it around Bookmakers since last week and now I got it. Woke up this morning with sore throat but I don't care I had to go in today it is the last day of the month last day of the fiscal year and now after a long day steadily packing packing packing I aaaaammmmm just glad we finally left work and I can spend a short hour on the internet in the cafe downtown before going home. I finished writing last Sunday at the fair last night and now I have uploaded it to make it the "latest" except tomorrow this will replace it maybe. Time and space are flexible as words can make them here. This is not a page and there is no spoon.

I had to go in today even though I am getting sick. It is the last day of the month and the last day of the fiscal year and Gertrude Stein used to sit around working on her sentences but I just spew first and ask workstions later and we must absolutely get everything possible out the door and onto the UPS truck, into the Federal Express Truck, into the California Overnight van... all those boxes of little books and pamphlets and booklets and flyers and stapled tracts and woven and glued little information jerkwad splats of paper that will be just thrown in the trash half an hour after some footweary slogger passes them out at the geegaw and beeswax convention next week in Hackitup Throat, North York....

Lord have mercy kyrae eleison but I am tired... maybe tomorrow I will stay home. I already warned Eddie and he said well whatever... at least you came in today.... and then he sighed and rushed off to slog down a few cold ones with David. I almost almost Almost joined them... but I have my addiction here clickity clik clak type.

I feel like traveling in time. I cannot finish this at the internet cafe. I shall go home and write some more of it there. This text shall follow me around like the dog at my gate. At our gate.

So now you know. I will come home from downtown around nine p.m. and write some more here. But. Not. Until. Tomorrow. I come home tonight but I don't write any more until tomorrow. I will finish after midnight so then it will be day after tomorrow. And I will still be sick.

Yes. Home. With a sore throat and aching bones. It's going to get worse but I Am Home. Two years ago Tere A. (another Tere I think I know ten or twelve of that name) invited me to give a small reading of my poems at her school, the institute of tecnology of Tijuana and I came out by bus to the end of nowhere on Otay Mesa beyond where Eagles DARE to land and golondrina swallow factories flutter and disappear after dumping their pollution and then reopening again for more; beyond where wild mountain sheep get their degrees in science and sociology and even in arts and humanities from the autonomous university they call them-selves Cimarrones... and they will lose one of their great old men tomorrow.

But I had no idea then, two years ago, that I would actually move out here to the end of nowhere which is really somewhere after all, this    O t a y   p l a c e or that I would come so quickly to love it like I do it is so very Mexican and family and not at all a tourist racket just people working and living and every essence of California and Mexico all wrapped up in its morning clouds and afternoon sun, its barren mountains jabbing at the sky in the east and its wide, open, flat spaces covered with dust, rumbling boulevard traffic, factories, stores, houses, houses, lots of little concrete houses.... Olimpia lives out here, on the other side of industrial boulevard and oh so near the parque de la amistad so does our architect and construction designer who I hope will build the house in Chapultepec God willing life is so short and if the creek don't rise....

when I read the newspaper tomorrow I will learn that Professor Vizcaino died tonight. He was a grand old man and I had the pleasure of sometimes hearing him speak at book presentations and literary talks. He and lovely Lucila even published some of my poems in the El Mexicano newspaper in the cultural supplement of Sunday October 20, 1992, and... but now he is gone.

Luisa will send me a set of abstracts to translate tomorrow. I will begin them even at home as I sit around moping and wishing I could feel better fast. Then I will go into work late. Then the day after that I will go in to work on time again. It is amazing what you can do if only you've a mind to write and want to manipulate time in literature. Language is power. The editor is God. The professor is God. The professor is with God. Only with language can you say such a ridiculous thing as if God were all powerful why couldn't he make a river so wide that he couldn't throw a silver dollar across it....

That has everything to do with language and nothing to do with God. Except that we always say that God said "BE" and let there be and etcetera we are.

It is very politically incorrect to talk about God as if she existed in the university where you studied me. I studied you. But what do I care? Well...

I care enough to learn the rules and then break them, like any good poet. Except I am not a good poet. I am not even a bad poet. I am merely some secondary lord poet, like Elliot wrote about, some fool and baffling buffoon in the court of an imaginary Maya lord painted on a old, cracked ceramic vase buried deep under this pyramid page, written and re-written, built and over-built and rededicated and yes, I have swelled a scene or two, but

Heh heh heeeeee. Luisa will give me a delightful packet of abstracts to translate tomorrow when I check my email. Speaking of academics, this was always my dream. To work with Mexican academics. I am soooo weird to run screaming from the university of California ten years ago after the last divorce ended in flaming disaster and then always anyway I daydream and I was always daydreaming of the university of Mexico in the valley of Anahuac where the Aztecs ruled and fell before the Spanish sword and Spanish smallpox and Spanish ah sweet universe suite fugue quintete queertete a tete yes la ley de herodes o te chingues o te jodes you're either fracked or you're screwed who cares I invent as I go stream stream stream your pen gently up the row dreamily dreamily dreamily dreamily I am here for show

In this essay the author offers a critical study of various theoretical notions of history en este ensayo la autora hace una revisión critica de varias nociones teóricas de la historia:

Yah you get the drift. Now this translating is a delightful little surprise when I open my email and there it is. It used to be a desperate wait for anything Anything ANTSINTHEPANTSANYTHING now please but no longer now that I am working every day in the book factory shipping out propaganda and motivational control texts, well, this translation is a delightful little sideline to my real madness of writing poetry and weaving this tangled web of web woven web pages page page who's got the page of cups the page of wands the page of swords and/or the page of pentacles.... this is not a page this is a cloud of electrons you only think looks like a page yes it is a page because you say so... because i say so you say so that I say so usuage rules therefore I stink night & morning low clouds of electrons....

Tonight, the last day of the month, the last day of the fiscal year, I had to make a late run of course to UPS and just got there in time since I left the factory after our deadline time to depart seven p.m. I left at seven-oh-five oh oh but got to the truck and Roberta and I had a few moments lovely chat about how wonderful America is and of course I tried to tell her how to spell oligarchy but she wasn't buying that line of $hittite WASP invasion, no, although she knew how many presidents were men, not women; how many were white, not any color; how many were protestant except for one; so I tell you again forget all that bullcrap about Jewish conspiracy theory this no, THAT other country the one I come from across the line is run by a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant conspiracy yes and God bless US yes it Is My Home. Heh. Mexico has taught me to love my home even though I very much preferr living in this Latin culture yes I do. So don't ask me I just work there.

The supreme court rullllllllled today or yesterday that free speech cannot be controlled on the internet but I don't care I am already selfucking pissediting assholeway heheeeeeee excuse me I mean to say self-editing anyway but you know sometimes the devil just slips out.

That reminds me I need to write down a history historia that Romeo told me at work about the devil coming to Tijuana and dancing with a young woman in one of the clubs it must have been Mike's I make up the mind and the devil was dancing closer and closer and pretty soon all the people in the club saw that they were actually floating above the dance floor and well do I mean to say all the people were floating or just that one couple heh you decide the story's much better with all withal altogether all together already all ready all right alright yes

If you ask me it must have been something in their damned drinks, literally if you catch my meaning here... and maybe it was la estrella, not Mike's that place is too gay for the devil anyway.

El autor propone que en la visión del mundo de Federico Gamboa conviven el romántico, el modernista y el naturalista, lo que produce una mezcla muy original en el ámbito de la novela realista hispanoamericana the author proposes that the world vision of Federico Gamboa partakes of the romantic, the modernist, and the naturalist, which produces a very original mixture in the realm of the Spanish American novel.

Against such pillars of proper academic thought I weave my rebellious worms. I don't know if you have ever tasted angulos the delicious dish of worms but they are magnificent. Shortly before I moved out from Ramón's building, he and I went across the park to visit his friend Carlos H., and he invited us to sample some angulos he had prepared. MMMMmmm mmm lip smacking good, except both Carlos and Ramón then yelled at me HEY PINCHE GRINGO DON'T SMACK YOUR CHOPS!!!!!1

Jesus but I Do Miss Those a$$htraymouthed @$SJhotles they are so foul mouthed sometimes but always in the best of

Oh shut up Dani.

Okay Mikey.

Why don't you tell them what you really are doing?

Huh? Aside from making you up? Just sitting at home after work thinking I won't go into work tomorrow, eh?

Yep. You already know the future. You wrote this tomorrow. Except

Except what, Mikey? It's easy to be a prophet when the bones aren't showing.

But we're going to let the bones show in the new site, aren't we?

Yes. Going to leave the directories opening to enquiring minds. They will be able to see the file names and dates and times and know when we uploaded it, at least, no matter what our dateline says.

"Pay no attention to that little man behind the screen", eh? But that won't stop us from revising whenever we feel like, will it, my dear left hand?

No, my right brain, it won't. But we HAVE Decided to open up the directories to browsing. BECAUSE After All, directory structure - they are/is - ../. an actual integral part of
computer reality / the internet reality
and all pages (that is to say, "pages" = files) are contained in directories and therefore we will not put up blocking index markers except in the root where an index page is absolutely required anyway. There the hand has spoken. Tell it to Mister Hand.

BUT Which brain are you, left or right?

Duh. We are both medula oblongata.

Oh yeah, that's right. You saw that in an old monster movie about that floating brain they had to hit with an axe right down the middle.

Uh huh, but anyway don't be left out, Mikey. Get out of planet Aros or whatever. The next level for this crawling eye and creeping brain will be the next level.

www.tijuanagringo.com under construction now

TO DEBUT amidst harvest and hunter moon, at the end of summer and beginning of autumn

end of the 47th year of the space age, birth of the 48th year.

October 2004

no apo strophe re member

okei bai         okay bye