Ce que le public te repproche, cultive-le, c'est toi
What´s on my mind? the unspeakable difficulty of literature, the belief that one should only publish what has value, that is, very little (so if I myself publish anything at all, that will be with / by uncertainty and/or weakness and/or deep remorse), the will, however temporary, of disabling blog and social networks in order to avoid falling into the temptation of easy attention and make of myself a media whore or a poor clown... It’s not lost on me that there are “out there” those who know how to use the digital miracle sparingly, but outside these, I think that poets, by their divine gift, simply DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT to “virtually” spend entire days at the social-digital, in the mere social (in endless events, endless interviews, endless outreach activities...) or mere-anything when they should be sweating over the keyboard to create a work and thus justify their gift and (their) the (own) existence... and I do not apologize if I offended anyone: you can break with me and screw yourselves, since you matter less than a worn out graphite edge, less even than the Facebook’s authentics, that is, all the non-poets who can, with at least some right, lost themselves in the luxo/lixo (reference to Augusto de Campos’ concrete poem, that would translate somewhat as luxury/trash, with loss of the paronomasia) of a easy and nice idleness…that they regenerate, the offended, and, being unable to be great and original, at least be authentic (Auden)…
P.S.: Will I have lost with this note some important "contacts" to my future as a poet? Maybe the inauthentic... But the point is that poets have no future, only the present of the work, which need not be printed not even need more than a handful of readers (maybe none at all) to justify itself.