Ismael Garay Becoming Andy Warhol Counting bus stops in a dream– Dream weaver, shake off the weary night, Dionysus is drowning in the fragile words of love, in the desire to wear the water mask of the gods, the rivers becoming echoes in the womb of your indifference. Poems make liars of us all, the songs won’t make the saints repent. Music men, give up your limp guitars, surrender the melodies that will not bend the wildflowers towards the sun, that will not bend the tiny hour– The muse is more unfaithful than the moon. The paralysis that hinders our flight, clouds becoming boundaries defining the limitations of sky– The earth is my spirit, innocense becomes infinite within the earth's flesh.