30 01 2010

FRIGHTENING ALLVOICES FRIDAY, originally uploaded by orlandoluispardolazo.…


28 01 2010

YOANI INTERVIEW IN ALLVOICES, originally uploaded by orlandoluispardolazo.…


28 01 2010

AN1VERSAR1O, originally uploaded by orlandoluispardolazo.

1 año de


27 01 2010

Link to original post
January 27 2010

VERDECIA-VILNES-VEB, originally uploaded by orlandoluispardolazo…



25 01 2010



24 01 2010



22 01 2010

Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

Perched on the eaves, without balls to fall onto the cuban street, or stabbed by a fellow citizen due to envy or political fight (violent death is always political).

Digitalized ipso facto by an amateur voyeur or a DTI expert,, orbiting around a virtual planet that we never had a chance to connect to while alive.

Killer desperation. Terminal boredom. Flashings from a future that stinks of the past of our worst country. Don’t talk to strangers. Protect your loved ones from these rickety memories. Pretend to be a foreigner at every opportunity. Leave, with its two nationalized meanings (fool the imperative mood): leave or go crazy…

Repressed reality like a pressure cooker. Atrocious baby sitter. Lymph Rice wants to marry a widow with capital: who can cook, who can tack, who puts a bullet on your head…. Exorcism of the democratiphobic demons who sit at the door of a belated or moronic transition.

Not a civil, but a somatic war. Who will upload the anonymous dead onto the world wide morgue? Which of us will rot in the cold in a madhouse, first state owned, the privatized? Which of us will overdie ourselves as victims and which as our interchangeable executioners of the truth?

Posthumous peace, post-motherland.

Let the TV broadcasters sharpen their lenses. Who drum from already sufficient epitaphs of the announcers of (cut) neck and tie. Now let the decapited tie- fitted announcers type their epitaphs. Whoever has a body, save it from local warming.

I am also standing at the end of the cliff.

The power police hand me their mobile phones with free credit (during tricky times, freedom takes refuge in details like these). The power-police’s police hand me their impersonal proceedings and, just as a matter of courtesy, at the same time they demand that I sign them, and exempt me from signing. Everybody without exception, you and you included, wants to extract the amorphous mass of my heart without anesthesia. Everybody wants to taste social insolence in the middle of zoo-cial discipline.

I can’t abandon myself, I can’t abandon-cuba. However, I can’t also disconnect myself from you or you. I am everybody, I am you, and you.

Digitalized ipso facto by an amateur voyeur or a DTI expert,, I orbit around a viral planet which I never had the chance of contaminating while alive.

Translated by LM


18 01 2010

See article on news site.


17 01 2010

Orlando Luis Pardo Lazo

Crushed parterres. Trails left behind by trucks of concrete beating on the asphalt, then pulverized until they form clouds of dust. To have to live with the doors and windows sealed, on the hill of the Avenida de Porvenir, with the paranoia of enduring respiratory illnesses or at least allergic reactions. Domestic lethargy within walls, outside the city rebuilds itself by fits and stars with cement and rum.

The neighbors complain in the official newspapers, but it as as much for the tragedy of this neighborhood of barriers as for the Department of the Construction. Lawton and Lawton and Havana want to grow, stretch, even break apart. In addition, they are resuscitating the Buttari softball stadium, the only semicircle where in my adolescence I could hit a home-run: literally hitting the ball out of the park.

Machinery, asphalt mixers and furnaces, rolling stones, inquisitive cranes all over Lawton’s roofs, pneumatic hammers, cables and sewer trenches, hard hats and boots, hunks of men of prosaic words and big naked torsos, all of it under the flat sun of our wintry January. People, we are in the middle of the second decade of the XXI century! Can we say that the exaggerated economic recovery has come to rescue us: Lawton as a canonic quarter, the paradigm to follow by Cuba and its villages?

More buses, state-owned taxis priced in CUCs, or unlicensed taxis at 10 pesos. Metro buses to Alamar or the Iron Bridge over the Almendares river, routes to Cotorro or the Malecon or Santiago de Las Vegas or Fraternity Park. I don’t want to leave here. I beg your pardon Lawton, if I ever insulted or maligned you, you crazy suburb, incurable crazy suburb, you.

Sometimes myopic and colorblind. Sometimes a piece of shit and a miracle. Almost never a token of luck, always a shroud. Don’t let my remembrances of you to go to exile. Do not tempt me to affront you in an “official period”. Better allow me to praise you in public, holding my ground in a blog. Do not let go of me Lawton, do not erase my name from your list of failures: I want to prostrate my self in the queue of those who did not learn how to abandon you at a proper time. Unrecognizable point and irreconcilable point of our country map.

The Hillock of the Burro shaved of his trees, baldness of the fatherland, deprived even of its pine trees. The Bus Terminal full of buses like in the “Golden Leyland Age.” Streetcar rails that the government does not stop selling to the best bidders in Japan as aseptic steel. Drugstores abandoned to their luck and the traders of snake oil. Cafeterias good to die in, without sandwiches and croissants. Staircases all over the place like in a wholesale market of stairs. A banished distillery even from itself, but still standing against the sepia skies of a post-revolution. The smoldering remains of “The Great Fire of Lawton-London” still full of smoke in the terror of the ancients (and there are almost no seniors left: everything left to us is effeminate comfort and modernity). The slaughterhouse, just the plain slaughterhouse, with its mooing cows abandoned to their luck standing in a train car (all Cuban travelers know by first hand experience of this classy bovine way of transportation). “The Count and the Railroad-Ferrari.”

And I, at the center stage of this jaundice iconographic nightmare, typing with shame, the mouthfuls and the potholes of true. I, silently screaming in your ear.

Translated by Zoquetote

piercing mania

16 01 2010

piercingmania, originally uploaded by orlandoluispardolazo.