That was my Vallejo bibliography, as basic and anemic as national salaries. That afternoon, I remember crying uncontrollably, the ladies in line came up to me in solidarity to try to calm me down, promising me that García would leave and never return (they were wrong because he came back, but that’s another story). I tri to explain to them between sobs that my tears were not due to the president’s clumsiness but to the discovery he had just made, to those verses that open a new route to language, until that moment unprecent for me.

Brilliant Philanthropic Work the

 From that afternoon, and for several afternoons, I became absorb in Vallejo’s poetry, I became animat like the stones of Santiago de Chuco, the town where he was born more than 124 years ago, and at the age of 18 I cross the route to the house fatherly, and again, that afternoon when it also rain, I cri again holding on to my cigarette and looking at the bench b2b email list of the house I ask myself why so much talent and not being able to do anything against death. After visiting his house, I tri to relate every book that fell into my hands, and to this I add the poetry workshop given by Marco Martos and a journalistic article that appear in some mia (remember, Google did not exist) add to declamations as brilliant as those of Hudson Valdivia and Delfina Pares.

Pauline Question That Is

 This is how I built my Vallejo, from scraps, from verses that accompani me throughout a night or several nights, feverish for its power, genius , like the one about who doesn’t call the cat a cat or that one with Sabinero taste: It was Sunday in the clear ears of my donkey. Vallejo, who follow the modernist route (because we are all young) and who was attack by the now totally unknown Clemente Palma (excuse me, known UAB Directory for what he did) and other young men from Lima who to this day exist in national criticism, and that they really reach that frontal front and, accompani by those from the North, we continu along until the streets of Lima, there through the Ancash strip where more than once we walk in poetry, endu like Lorca.