Galleguillos Nuñez Samuel was born in another era. Rather, under the stars and when the time walking slower. There had to pay to be happy. Enough beaded necklace and a blanket to make partner. A whistle, a crest, a lemon, a handful of nuts. To love is like a conversation. They spoke at length with friends, some music, some journals, of certain letters and certain songs. It was in the wave like a leaf in the wind. Not much was known here in the ass of the world because it too came through the senses. The words and the school is served, it was poetry, and the unhealthy habit of talking back and forth, the only spaces that limit today. The world was on track except for some balls to be resisted, and they kicked ass in Vietnam, and top votes in Chile. It was not Red Stone because he came back. Grass is best traveled in the Valley to infinity. The landing was forced. Handrail only poetry. The poetry blog serves to go searching the life bits and pieces, flashes, notes, footnotes, small telegrams in a strange communion between words and the speed of life. When Samuel tries to write a poem comes out, does not fit, but when it deploys its web timid air of the day catching small insects wonderful wings or elytra quivering shimmer. Samuel Nunez's poems are like a hug, a kiss, and a friendly smile, warm greeting as a brother, or sometimes a frown, a lump in his throat, and that does not work the academy but the purity of the soul, closer to classical Chinese poetry to the naturalness of the Beat Generation, with which certain dwellings of culture tend to assimilate. Samuel is a mediocre city and an exceptional poet, a proud looser, a free fearful of his own wings. So when we read the poems of Samuel Nunez have to do in the heat of the day to day, without losing the ability to ride our little haven in a corner of the micro, on a park bench or on the parapet of a bathroom accessory . Samuel music lover, because it is a full-blooded rocker because he knows, like me, who do not fit in the tonteritas rock so necessary in the pop, rock in the vein is outward, like the poems of Núñez. And there, as they wanted the learned lounging-beauty in minimalism, a distance rarely seen, as accurate between speaker and object. No drone or fuss, neither intemperate song (which some mistake for earthquake), shreds no simple narrative of life. Maybe that's why his poetry like and love. Far from the experiments seudovanguardistas, does not neglect the fact that language builds or destroys worlds. Nor was he very interested in their successful epigrams, or dyes haiku, or naif narrative and uncanny ability of the texts. Reading and talking to Samuel Nunez, one can see that every poem of his is a balancing act, no catharsis or self-therapy, but the act of balancing full life in bursts of outrageous talent. In an almost obsessive irrational genius. Samuel is not inspired nor construct his poems: rather they gestated from the germ of life insomniac, so that in some strange belly mature and go on living, then, between Samuel and the poem there is little to do, left to drift as the bird driven from the cliff-a few will die in the attempt but others remain in the sky over the memory of someone, somewhere in the world, and it seems that Samuel, that is enough to keep him uphill.
