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HIPÓLITO ALVARADO (Guayaquil, 1929)

Around her eyes

today I saw some eyes again

since never always seen

from three corners of spin time

unwinding back its own spiral

in other smaller eyes

that they peek from inside

the afternoon of children and birds

playing the balls in the portal oo oo

going down



eyes rolled up in the air


from the bottom of the sky down


her head hair

black waterfalls on the shoulders

and in the pool of water at the bottom of the stairs

his head

my head on his shoulders

reflected against the floor

endless snail from your feet down

from my feet up

your eyes meet excuse me

oh not mine is the fault i was in heaven

contemplating some eyes

she turned off her smile

hid his eyes

and their black waterfalls were long

stagnant in the back

and the stands are over for me

I even forgot where I was going

I just felt like I was going slowly down a tunnel

to the other time below

she was waiting for me from the bleachers

we looked at each other a spark of light

another spark of more light

and returned the eyes to her friends

talk smile

speak turn and look

and I wait for your look in suspense

I discover in silence the fine flight of the message of his eyes

of your hands and your fingers

of his ring

since then they have flown

many afternoons of lowered suns

many nights of worn moons

how many things have happened since then

until rain and lightning

clueless of winter

sometimes I saw her at the bar

or just walking

on the sidewalk of the air traffic park

very of her husband hanging by the arm

hiding in the folds of the blouse

his three months from spike in

ever in the centennial park

very mommy inaugurating the stroller

an gú

an gú

an gú

look at him, he has her little eyes

green flakes on marine silver background



restless and today I have seen her again

from a shivering cold summer night

sun hidden behind your eyes

in front of the dark glass

glaring at me

while talking on the phone


I am behind that mass with the figure of a man

sitting in front of my eyes

wrong number sir

you know I love you from the stairs back then

wrong number sir

you know

oh god the lines are crossed

I love you from the corner portal

you standing in the stands watching me

what does it say

that I love you from the corner of always


impossible I am married

Forget it


What do I fucking care about?

I only know that I love you and that's enough


Goodbye Clockwork Orange

The revolution of the sexy lamb / prophets

beatniks you were right /

conjugated fables modes historical time

gave and found the wave in which the Son of Man


or his spirit is again

the masses Godspel Jesus Christ Super-star

or any other

with electronic sound percussion

folk - this is important

on this rock I will raise my church-

and above all do not lose faith

do not fall into sin

/ the entire prophecy was not valid either

Rotten Ginsberg /

marijuana yes heroin no

the very personal communion of mushrooms

acid or peyotl

the polarization of sex


it is being done with the new customs The Scripture

Farewell to the old wise men: Jesus the child

puts in check again the doctors of the law

goodbye Clockwork Orange ultraviolence

freedom will no longer have that atavistic tail

goodbye eagles vultures goodbye warrior heroes

generations of warfare will go to the dustbin of history.



A year goes by soon

but one day

stays for many years.

The dream

it goes away like a sigh.

When it rains

I remember you naked.


History and geography lesson

The earth is round,

very nearly,

if it weren't for those


at the poles.

In such a way

than anyone

can kick him

and without remedy.

That's why it was

that Christopher Columbus discovered

than sowing pumpkin seeds

in the one hemisphere

good military dictatorships could be obtained

in the other one.


My mother

It was a spring of crystal clear and fresh water,

she was the owner of a honeycomb with excesses of sweetness.

It was the worker bee that in her eagerness to talk,

with its flowers accomplices in essences of tenderness.

Giving and teaching was always his warm destiny

that's why she did her last job invalid,

united his children as it was written in heaven,

blessing one by one ... at the last supper.

One Good Friday she spoke with the Lord shaken,

He begged for his children, the poor, the unredeemed,

and for the old companion reason for his life:

tomorrow you will be with me, Nazareno told him.

And the Creator fulfilled what he had promised,

for her the RESURRECTION was that day,

He caressed her face and kissed her forehead,

He put on a diadem the same as Maria's.

CARLOS ROJAS (Guayaquil, 1943)

Possibilities of pleasure


Back to the routine of pleasure

days are coming


maybe ellipsis

Life goes by gigantic


That man

this woman

that space

and I undaunted

riding (perhaps) silently after them.


Perhaps the use of the word is the most pleasant

and we only find out by doing it

or maybe never.



and maybe love

that cloudy warmth in exercise

that dying


and vice versa

And all in less than an instant.

ROSA AMELIA ALVARADO (Guayaquil, 1944)


Navigate my body of water

nauta foam dress

hoist your sails

sink your bow

in the blazing tempest

of my flesh

let me wet your wood

bathe your boat with burned skin

loose your moorings

come dance in my dance

naked conch

come run aground your

ship in my port

come to placate me

the fury of all the winds

SONIA MANZANO (Guayaquil, 1948)


I mark one, zero, four:

I ask if I am,

yes I am,

if my name is,

if in March they change my phone,

if I relate to any number,

if I have paid my bill and to what name.

They hang up.

I hang up.

Any other possibility sounds busy.

I can not anymore,

there is no more:

I reinvent myself.


Vatars of the vate

It is built miserable with its estrus

and he knows that this wealth is not of this world.

Meet your tearing hybrid

vinegar and syrup senses

of poetic acolytes with the team

always on the verge of aborting the metaphor.

He consecrates himself

with the prize of living

and is crowned with its almond branch

on the ashes of temples.

He makes a lamp before his neighbor

screaming at him:

What are you crazy or are you the devil?

And luck

who was born here tired

with its huge sedative slime

lustfully soaks the bony torsos

of the minstrel prophets of the concrete.

Her threadbare jean stands on its own

before the apocalyptic glow

from acid rain.

IBSEN MANZANO (Guayaquil, 1951)

The gods

they play poker

on the chest

of a dying old woman,

the planets

defy the gods

changing the dictated orbits,


We raise crows and other birds of prey;

but the truth

is that there is no way

so everybody

let us agree.

EDUARDO MORÁN NÚÑEZ (Guayaquil, 1957)


The day will fall apart if I remedy

in the caliginous ravine,

stop holding it uselessly with your ebony staff.

The air is a moo

loaded with strange smells.

I'm going out.

Find me the overcoat

of absurd words.

Put me on the neck

the scarf you sewed

with threads of frost.

Outside the moon sneezes

just like a constipated dog.

Open the balcony and let her in.


you give the shoes a shine

Like the splendor of the morning

And when I'm gone

go down to the dining room,

someone will have set the table

and a certain freshness of leaves,

even if

Today we will not eat the apostolic snack.

It's late.

But don't take the car out.

I'm going to walk.

Call the downpour on the phone.

And don't go uselessly waiting for me all night.

Go to sleep, old ghost.

That I will only cross a suburb


and a degenerate dunghill.

MARITZA CINO ALVEAR (Guayaquil, 1957)

The word was terror

of my ancestors.

They founded

the tyranny of a dialect


to the disproportion of fear.

I'm the only one

unfaithful to reason.


Waiting for someone

From the deep void of time

your honey nights consume me

in every season of life.

DANIEL CALERO SOLÍS (Guayaquil, 1962)

Cracked skull

I always dream

with scalpels burying

in my brain

and the verses scatter

between stunned fingers.

I always fear

mutilations of thoughts

I'm afraid to forget

all my secrets.

I think

slowly abandon

this small place

peppered with accusations

break the aliferous time.

On my cracked skull

the whip will fall in silence

then there will be a maze

where there was so much mystery.

RAMIRO CAIZA (Machachi, 1963)

The word

constant drowning in the forehead

corrode ungraspable farewell

raises gray dust

that surround the taciturn eyes


the clamor of an abandoned cage

a shackle that explodes in the

darkness sparks beat desperate

his self-absorbed wings


here lies the challenge made into word

the song with its black circles under the eyes

at the edge of irremediable time

constant but far away

at night

trinkets crossed on the roads

they turn poisonous to show off

fancifully ineffable well-being

poor man on the edge of the bonfire

that is extinguished.


Cities have many marginalized people, not only in the suburbs.

-In some lots live popular artists, with a gift of people and knowledge of intellectuals-. They are not necessarily those who are in the portals of churches, cathedrals or informal vendors who hit the municipal ones. Pensions, motels, brothels proliferate on the perimeter, that great arm that like an embrace strangles the city.

With a crystal glass, the drink is offered by the song of JJ a sinister character, some teeth empty, frayed but in a suit, the Devil and the outrage are daily news.

But Mother Courage also lives in the place, a sound from Sonora sounds now, the lady resembles an old woman with her joy and grace to a black queen who is getting ready for the dance, carrying a bucket in one hand

and in the other a princess holds her.

They walk on something that looks like asphalt, 100 meters away in a bus an assault, the law of the strongest, a game of dice to which it seems there is no way to object, overcrowded are born, die and every step the pimp, the pimp, the rage, sour face, like a great wound, that one another through effort, joy and sanity sometimes manages to close the suture.

The garbage of others, the hatchets collect with their carts, in loose T-shirts - under which pure skin and ribs.

They travel the city with their children, rolling like a roller coaster, like a centipede on the back of a rat. Its route is already chewed fruit. Eyes, look. They are watching us. We are forgetting them and turning our backs.

The chambero woman also exists, and she is also sad, always wearing trousers, never a dress or skirt and in her ear never a compliment.

Maybe your dreams are a deep red, your heart a little stone,

but still immense.

Good and evil, usury is another rubbish and is not perceived as such,

along with everything that hurries us: luxuries and other spells.

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