I knew the melody ... a guitar ... Oh, of course! "Wish You Were Here", but this version's different! And who's singing? After you discover, through the author's own(and brilliant actor) which is a version of Thom York! Ok, you have every right to hate Belchior, it is consistent! But see "Our Fathers" with Elis and "Palo Seco" with Los Hermanos?! And Andrew was always telling me that Radiohead had more than a foot in Fluid Rosa.

I will not speak of the text this time, if you will see a piece of Mario Bortlotto, written by him or not (in this case was), knows that the text is Cock! You do not alwaysexpect that you will leave with a lump in my throat and will need about 10 minutes tore-enter the atmosphere that lies beyond the doors of the theater ...

The light is perfect, scary! The sounds! I'm not talking about the soundtrack, sounds!The flame is extinguished when the stove has a role! The actors, impressive! Young, dumb as if his features had been in a work of makeup! The boy who runs away is not the same as sitting with a book appeared there 50 minutes ago! The Old!Where's Chico Makes Both of the Kerouac?

Tattooing has always said to be an odd number. I had 4. Today I won the fifth: Men,Saints and defectors will be with me forever!

Ten years ago I was another guy, kind of lost and without direction, rushed and a lot like - gasp ... - To myself, here and now. I found one of the many Mario transshipments by the way I did. He was propped on a bar counter, reading a pocket of L & AM and was wearing a robe.
This amazing journey has lasted 10 years. We continue.  The difference is that it always falls on stations in the same way and, despite the shit that is on the outside, back to the cabin more intact and aware of his destiny: shaky, shot, lucid. Mario - quite different from me - knows the path. And that, in my view, is more vital and necessary than trying to guess the surprises of the next stop - a matter of logic, cause and effect. He is a master at getting it.

These images of trains and platforms seem a little worn, never thought would appeal to them. I confess that I do so only to reinforce the idea that there is anybody who knows how to stay in his corner, butt, watching. First, the guy has to be disciplined, then you have to learn not to disperse and - if possible - do not mix wine with whiskey. Okay, I got where I wanted. Mario know cultivate patience (even in time to miss it). Still, he is very patient. Especially with the ghosts in its path. And this is where the book begins. Because, and I can load these souls, he does blues, playing billiards, and leads the light, and now also of high quality poetry with them.

After reading "A good place to die" *, the book of poems he wrote exactly this time that we travel together, I have a feeling I will not be so lost when it comes late in the season, while still mixing sunset and confusion, and continue rushed and stressed the urgency and the same damn mistakes forever, but that ... well, that's my problem.

I mean it's good to have Mario in the same car, a guy who sits there in his corner. Always on, and laughing at himself and taking a wave face, say, the "self" of others. Well. In A Good Place to Die, he invented a kind of Christian compassion through punk and no lachrymose "that come to me who are desperate, those who never repent (...) I'm there to take all sins." Well to say that all the sins that cover this book can be read this way: the troglodyte forgives, and welcomes both blasphemous, disguises, and will call for beating to canvas, then he thinks that a dog receives smiling with a bark and plays her friend's tits shake.

What, all within the counterpoint and tension necessary for the existence of any work of art, even to take a break from blues to idiosyncrasy which is a country whose barking dogs will first smile for Roberto Carlos.

Another thing is the difference. Mario is an author who refuses to take dogs for walks. Not the kind of guy who needs to repeat "Jesus Christ, I'm here" (I bet the son of God in high regard because of it).

Therefore, each jack to his trade. This means that the author of "A Good Place to Die" could not take the risk to levitate in public. Not after having survived four shots at close range. Another miracle would be too much. Hence, he dismisses the special effects and calls his demons to "have a particular" with you and your readers. There are no stray bullets in this book. Shots are fired from the same heart that holds the bullets and bombs to lead the rest of the body. Anyone who wants to can call poetry.

In the intervals of the bang-bang, another war. In his studio apartment, and now with women. They erupt in the midst of storms, with cheap ink flowing hair (redheads imagine them), some bewitched and stumbling, smeared with tears, lipstick and vomiting, others proud of their transparencies, most Beth Blue - fucked and poorly paid, whatever the law is the same for them all, until they learn the basic equation of solitude (the "forever") they will not have an easy life with the author: "And he wanted to get into it / and stay there the rest of your life / not to be one, but two to be / definitely and once and for all / both. "

"A Good Place to Die" is a declaration of love of a compassionate misanthrope in the middle of a crowd of crazed zombies (as if that were possible ...). Is it? Now of course it is.

There has a poem, entitled Opera of pigeons without a destination that proves so. When the subject grows crippled carrier pigeons that deviate from the windows, but were not 100% abandoned by God, anything is possible. These pigeons lousy but have no destination address right to die, that's the point. Do you know why?Because only a poet could misanthropic and generous - in the middle of the soot and degeneration - imagine them like this: pure white. Pigeons lost who refused to know the way, and, finally, summarize the book.I have to convert it from pdf to excel.

Needless to say, despite the beautiful image, the time of the pigeons and it was our time is gone too: indeed, the poem included strategically time of truce at the beginning of the book leaves no doubt about it.

The pigeons that fly in the attic grows Mario disguised as bats and coyotes howl done, play pool at dawn, fight in the bar and come home torn apart trying to get rid of love: "There are people who really love / But then you want to get rid of love / To get a new love. "

However, not bats or pigeons are coyotes. They will never be able to land anywhere other than the attic of the poet. A devastated place, wet and full of compassion. The book is about those maimed birds who refused to know the way, but - after all - found in the words of Mario, a good place to die. There are quite a few. The fate that any honest book of poetry would want to, I guess.