into the
deep divine
of circumstances
carnival has never been my thing
but then I was born a Brazilian
and had been to Venice.
more than once.
so how to explain...?
the allegories I've embodied,
the parades I've marched,
the parties I've taken part of,
the discontinued rhythm
of events resounding
multiple natural
abortions of perfection.
sometimes being pregnant
doesn't mean you're a mother.
if only you knew
how the porcelain
cracks hints of flesh
that's been there for so long.
flesh that's stronger than
any steel or armor I
attempt to wear,
more precious than any of
the poems I've written...
more there than anything I am.
if only breathing was enough
to deconstruct the over-thinking
floors in this building,
I would take a deep breath and
gently exhale every particle to
its newest remodeled rooms.
nothing's darker than a room
where there are lights, off.
if only heartbeats equal
quantity of times I've felt
this way, then my heart
has beaten once.
strong, pungent and warm
by a Japanese drummer.
because it is only the absence
of the present presence
to bring the present back.
.the.dualism.of. Dali.
parachute
when we squint our eyes
to opposite
complimentary
colors falling hot
and cold,
ah, those snowflakes
on a summer night
on the tip of
our tongues
to the bottom
of our stomachs.
[Pic by merrie, manipulation by me.]
defying poetic norms
...I had a poem in my mind with a very precise final stop. she then crossed past by me and it all turned into comas, and comas, and comas,
Braveheart
by my pillow,
laced top borrowed
from me last night,
although my own,
smell, smell of skin and
on my sheets
hair longer than
the ones in my head and
motion and bodies,
waves that make
the design of my cover
dance
and I'm so brave.
because nothing really is my own.
and I knew you'd get it
when I said and repeated it.
and I'm late, I know, but really
you're always the one who's late.
so I believe we're actually on time.
and I'm so brave
when I play you those songs and
am absolutely ridiculous...
I'm so brave
because good poems come in parts.
[photo by V-Imagine ]
Texto Para Ser Lído & Queimado
[Sessão Baú - Revisitada]
A mão segurava a pena vermelha e branca, hesitante, vai e vem. O foco se afasta, o circulo de luz se abre e vejo que aquela sou eu, sentada, dialogando com o papel, em branco.
"Os muros como projetos", "Van Gogh", "Isto me faz feliz", "único", "especial" e frases que continuamente chocavam-se umas nas outras, resultando em partículas de emoções arrítmicas mas sinfônicas, e mais sinfônicas do que um simples tum-tumnar.
"Você deveria ter escrito" disse-me Baudelaire vestindo apenas um samba-cancão branco com listras azuis. "Não. Gostaria que ela lembrasse daquele dia quando... ouvisse o nome de Van Gogh ou vestisse pela vigésima segunda vez, azul. E não que ela por um acaso encontrasse o dia-papel em sua gaveta e o relembrasse. O dia-memória, o dia-voz, o dia-cheiro, o dia-tato... esses são os verdadeiros dias que se abraçam feito ondas..."
"Acho que vou tardar para aparecer nesse cômodo de novo. Obrigada pela minha dose de vida."
E inesperavelmente ele terminou o cigarro que nem ao menos vi que havia começado, sorriu e saiu pela porta.
Mirei o papel e lá estavam minhas palavras exatamente como as havia fluído: ao seu redor meus muros deixam de existir, como se tivessem sido apenas um projeto de construção. Feliz. E isto aconteceu de uma forma especial e única, assim como o azul de Van Gogh.
Vou esperar que ela quase desperte, para lhe sussurrar dia-energia.