The Haircut Factory

The barber from the haircut factory cuts the hair of the grass, the trees, the hair of the bush, a little flower and Atacama Desert. The barber’s scissors cut the hour, the heat of the day, the memories and their atoms. The barber cuts a kind of solemn joke, a saxophone tune like a carburetor with ADHD, a fall like the heart of cocaine lifted to the skies and the barber feels comfortable with his dark circles. The parking spots, the stadiums, the supporters, the jibber jabber from the vegetable market, the finish line and the belly button of the Earth are cut. A vortex of cold light and perplexity await patiently to get a haircut. The barber from the haircut factory constantly divides and adds. Tiredness is sheared like a sheep. The haircut factory works at maximum capacity. Breath with breath. The haircutting fever jumps over the Equator, the barber steps over his dark circles and cuts madness around the joints, or one of its sisters that lost the train. When the moon rises, Calculus spreads its legs, the barber wipes his sweat with his sleeve and talks to the hair in a polite manner. Splendid fall! The barber from the haircut factory cuts the night’s sex, the sore on the moon, he cuts his own factory, and let anyone say how this odyssey will end, because a never tired pair of scissors cutting locks of hair can be heard in the darkness.  

Rumors

How the debit cards were shining like little stars! The corporation was the mother galaxy and you started, as well, to feel that protective shiver. The great family was also opening her arms for you and everything was made of stainless steel and nickel. You distanced yourself quite easily with stretched wristbands and a fork and a knife in your hand. How the corporation building was reflected in the gloss of your shoes! How you used to lower your eyes to see the knees of the economical manager and how you used to leave room for him in the elevator! On the corridors you used to smoke Black Russia and used to pass your hand through your hair and everything was made of nickel until, one day, – you had to go through this as well – you had to see the underground of the corporation (every galaxy was its own favela). One day, when you went to the toilet you found written on the toilet seat: my ass sat here!” The dilemma was as huge as the house!… and all the nickel on the house fell. To wipe someone else’s dirt yourself? It’s not in your nature. To lift the toilet seat and to climb on the toilet with your feet? You are an educated citizen. To give five pounds to the cleaner to wipe off that thing? Let’s not be ridiculous (even if the cleaner could have used two cigarettes). To call the consumer protection? That would be too much. You came back through insulated windows and stainless steel with your tight sphincters, and outside the streetcars were passing through the rain. The corporation has paid a bit more, and in certain places it started to stink because there were rumors that the economical director embarrassed himself at some parties, and when you took your leave, worried, towards the office passing by the cleaner, who was leaning on a mop fervently sucking on a cigarette, you heard her saying: “this guy will never make a fortune in his entire life not even if he gets fucked in the ass, because he sat at the same table with poets and he paid only for his beer.