Male Genital Medical Examination

Oh, how sweet, how serene

the Nazarene walked by the empty field
less full of vegetables that thorny
Calvary

The procession moved
with deep quiet suffering,
How sad the sun set!
How people crying!
How grieved Jesus ...! And he


inhumane executioner that was
sweet Jesus with whip in hand, face fierce
what had!
what heart as villain!

scene softened a tiger!
was going to drop the lamb, and this black monster
fierce
would
across the face with a whip of steel ... But a mischievous

villager, a precocious child

-hearted and healthy
and soul as big and as pure as heaven
Castilian, generous little boy


that looking at her, silent,
felt the tragic scene,
that left him a heart full of deep resentment
painful

sublimed suddenly broke
people,
took a round pebble, looked at him the executioner's

face with eyes very deep hatred,

he stood before the sculpture,
teeth clenched,
aseguróse feet,
wisely measured height, arm stretched
through, the bullet whizzed

terrible, sounded
indefinable hit, and the infamous executioner

fell horrible bouncing the board
stubborn.

the faithful
rowdy by the terrible event, surrounded the child
angry, asking
admired:
- Why, why did you do that? ...

And he answered, aggressive,
voice of those who come
of a righteous soul to the living:
- "Why yes, because you're stuck
without any reason!".

Today, that men go,
seeing Jesus suffer, I am interrogating
:
Are we men of today
those children yesterday?

The Pedrada (fragment). José María Gabriel y Galán. Oh

popayancito Popayán. While I hear the distant singing of the seminarians from the nearby church, traveling my mind and my heart to you.

Macarena Hand in hand, my friend from another time, I again have lozenges in your streets paved, back up to the balcony and again I hear the noise of the crowd in celebration. Friday

pain. Rattle sounds and the four cardinal points of the cathedral above the mob. There, far away, is the Dolorosa, little one, gallant. Accompanies San Juan, cheeks lush and beardless face fag. Below, sweaty Costalero worth their sins while swaying the Quidam, the Cristo de San Agustín and the priests who sing long elegies.

That day I left my doubts and hesitations and turned to be Catholic. It was more a Protestant Pilgrim! No sir! Catholic and atheist as God commands and pupil of the Jesuits to make matters worse.

Catholicism for me, more than a religion is an aesthetic sense. Already said by me García Lorca: 'offices have attended different religions. And I came out cheering the wondrous, beautiful, unparalleled English Catholicism. To say nothing of the Protestant religion. I have no head (in my head Latino) how people can be Protestants. Is suppressed all that is human and comforting and beautiful, in a word " (letter to his family, written from New York on July 14, 1929). In fact, I have found on American soil the first evangelical sense.

Instead, I like the eyes, mournful eyes, Dew, Pilar, Guadalupe, Chiquinquira, de Covadonga, Lujan, Montserrat. I like the pipe organ sound, which is interpreted a gentle tune of Mozart. The Stabat Mater, the Pange Lingua, the Dies Irae, how to love my ears!

Play Handel's Messiah Passover with its thousand hosannas and see the baroque altarpieces of the Bogotá iglesinas old that it does think of God.

Gozo

greatly with the songs of Teresa of Avila, Juan de la Cruz, Luis de León, I place the Renaissance Castilian accents Basques of the Exercises Spiritual by Loyola and I relish the human figure's sensual and passionate Alexander VI.

So what national pride I felt that time in the balcony on the street, in the Popayán of my memories, seeing this show, all lined up and mediocrity, pious and prayerful. Understand this

readers, damages and aware: This is the most Catholic country in the world, multiplied rosaries, bandages removed by the bushel and even exported.

Ah, Colombia, Columbian, columbite. Crazy, fucking, killing, Tartuffe, prayer leader. For that actually work. There you go, as Dolorosa: tame, loose tumbling left and right, straining for a bit, Stepping out, down the hill toward the abyss. As the San Juan youth of my reminiscences go, queer, dressed in green mountain of your three mountain ranges. Down the hill, sleeping in the dream of your religion soporific, behind your old colonial remnants, in the hands of a political class that constantly sucks the breast lactiferous huge profits it provides the most shameless product sinecures.

You're hopeless, stupid. Therefore, in this Holy Week, I condemn from the cross of existence in which I'm stuck. Father not forgive her she knows what she does, but is stubborn, the very stubborn. I tell you today will be with me in hell. It is finished. Here is my fucking mother.

Ite missa est. Amen.

Photo 1 of Diego Hoyos www.flickr.com : a child lights the candles of the passage of the angel of the Resurrection in Popayan, Colombia. In photo 2, the same site, a religious group welcomes the passage of the Lord of the donkey on Palm Sunday.