Green how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches.
— Federico Garcia Lorca
Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.
With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.
In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.
There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them.
I was lucky enough to see with my own eyes the recent stock-market crash, where they lost several million dollars, a rabble of dead money that went sliding off into the sea.
New York is something awful, something monstrous. I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie. New York is Senegal with machines.
As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.
Besides black art, there is only automation and mechanization.
The only things that the United States has given to the world are skyscrapers, jazz, and cocktails. That is all. And in Cuba, in our America, they make much better cocktails.
The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.
To see you naked is to recall the Earth.
