how does it feel through other people’s eyes?

a heart that stutters like a mouth, gasping for air, and tries to reach like a drowning hand, tries to build a bridge that is long gone, this affair that has long befallen, down under, seeing ships sink.

and that now is only scorched dirt and nothing more.

truth is that words can’t build anything more nor quench fire, for what was destroyed in the past lies, there, depleted of use and of utility.

it is a heart that indeed tries to speak from the abundance of the mouth, but shame is that such wealth is, nothing more and nothing less, than nothing.
 

being with you was better than loneliness

but, back in the day, I thought these were my only two options.

ama a burocracia como teu mestre supremo. adora teu cartão de crédito como ídolo.

é em cada expediente de 9 horas, em cada fila de banco, em cada ônibus lotado – é em cada aresta afiada da vida adulta que, aos poucos, perco os pedaços de minha alma.

musings – a self-portrait

I like to watch people, from really tall buildings, passing by with really busy steps; like the shape of the waves formed by black and white Portuguese pavement, lapping on the shore of asphalt of the streets of downtown; I like fervent, exquisite kisses exchanged by careless lovers in the midday sun, the enticing smell of fresh coffee in the mornings and the appetizing one of beer evaporating from the floor of the bars on really hot summer nights. Crunchy textures on food, as well as salty, sweet and spicy please me, almost as much as finding really cheap and good books that will make mind for a while and put words in my mouth. I rejuvenate in the power of youth, fresh for a revolution. I love the stupor caused by the perfectly lit cigarette after a meal, the bitterness of gin and sweetness of friends’ smiles, the feeling of infatuation felt only while in love, and the enamored boys, fresh and sweet. I like pleasantries towards cashiers and waiters, the indescribable rush of inspiration after looking at pretty pictures that I will never be able to reproduce, and high speeds and the loving, cozy comfort of dark, half-lit rooms. also, I like the word ‘thoroughly’ and its weird, sexual appeal, cheeky graffiti, well-told stories about ancient times, a good, wholehearted laugh, and the need to escape that rises after the words of Kerouac. I am happy when my favorite song is played in crowded, highly organized, colorful supermarkets, the embarrassing unquietness of convenience stores after two o’clock in the morning, swinging, well, in swings, the amazement that is the vocabulary of young children, the loneliness while enjoying a bus trip, the somewhat faint memories of love that I, thankfully, have not been able to erase.

and dreaming.

I have never felt so alive.

thinking of the future

and something dark
seized my heart
at the thought.

à beira

mil léguas
de línguas
submarinas
lambem a areia.

e sob a marina,
dois ouriços se beijam.

todos os barcos
cortam o mar
como manteiga.

e a saudade,
desta maneira,
mal em mim cabe.

não há ancora
e nem sereia.
só há areia;

essa areia
que me escalda.

cathedral

the universe seems unhinged for a moment, unstable. its legs wobbly, as if trying to stand up. I see. it breaths. inhales, exhales. trembling, in short gasps, regaining power after so long sobbing itself to sleep.

it smiles, once again. the whole thing, the planets and dark matter and forbidden, untouched secrets. a teeth-full, most adoring thing, bright and shiny, in a light as hot as a thousand suns. my eyes can barely handle it, but even if my corneas were burned to a crisp, I’d be glad to be alive to witness it. I am glad, and alive.

all sceneries seem blurry, spinning in fast revolutions. trees, although shaking, stand tall, fighting to maintain balance while standing on the shoulders of giants. getting a glimpse of the future. it’s shaky, they say, but there. or maybe it is just my own eyes. it is all so fast, so I, myself, take a deep breath of fresh air and the world is here, inside me, in my bloodstream. captured.

and it explodes. everything in here, organs I can’t name, cells I cannot control. it implodes due to the magnitude of amazement. I am infatuated with it all. in love. and this feeling surfaces, so I let it bleed out. purge me. I touch and smell, maple, cement, jasmine: I taint all life with this uncontrollable desire to see and have and be. with love and Buddha gratitude for all beings.

they tell me it is just a good phase for a Gemini, a good conjuncture of fate, but I like to believe that everything is, indeed, just so colorful and big. a lovely grandeur. a stream that, even if a delusion, flows, spills and pushes every pregnant, dormant bud into blossoming anew.

it feels safe here to just lay here and laugh freely, wholeheartedly, under this black quilt that covers the head of the night. this thick blanket of poets’ dreams that, yes, has many-a-time been treaded upon, but that is just content to be laid and spread there for all those who wish to walk by it.

a life that bears only fruits and no regrets. not any longer. it just gives and gives, expecting nothing back. unselfishly. it is breathtaking. a movie of light bulbs and noise that pans before us all. I barely noticed it, but that now I finally see. you can, too. you just have to just stop and stare at it, be willing to see it, too.

I am delighted by the power of all these words and images, of everything that seems to move, unrelentingly, before my eyes. so impressed that I even forget the frailty of mortality, the sadness of burials. people fall in many ways around me but they come back. I am glad for that. all lives and vapors are not wasted, not a single drop of soul left behind. even if not absorbed by the dry earth that is the minds’ eyes of others, it evaporates to shower us once again.

it is all a delicate yarn of a sultry sea, seamlessly knit to the richest strip of sand.

of time. and history.

so I, hungrily, dive in the inspiration, from beggars to Doisneau, from the bitter coffee to the sweetest kisses that strangers blow to their departing children.

goodbye, farewell. see you soon.

and the world regains its breath. it puffs, whispers sweet nothings into my ear, soothingly. and eyes that were cloudy with tears are now clear to perceive the infinite beauty that every crack on the pavement holds.

assim caminha a humanidade

e James Dean me encara de um pôster pregado, engordurado, na parede de um banheiro de bar sujo na Lapa, com aqueles olhos tristes, olhos que falavam por si só, sem precisar de palavras; na tela em preto e branco, eram olhos de garoto grande que ainda é pequeno, de menino incompreendido pelo mundo gigante. triste, muito triste – era ele. ele só.

olhos que me olham direto, olhos com alma. e tudo que penso, no topo da minha bebedeira, é pourquoi ne pas vous rapprocher de moi?

mas que brilho eterno?

te desarraigaria se assim fosse possível, extirparia a sombra de tua presença do sol do meu futuro. te apagaria sem pensar duas vezes e ficaria apenas com aquelas lembranças simples, iguais as de todo esse povo que passa, como formigas apressadas, por entre os carros na avenida presidente vargas.

port of call

válvulas solenoides
controlam o mundo.

respiramos
os vapores
dos canos de escape
e os odores
de um dia de trabalho.

todos os dias
em metrô-rios
e super-vias:
aço.

o mundo é rude,
acotovelado,
em um elevador lotado.

e um prédio espelhado
foi ao chão na treze de maio.
não houve outro conforto
além de poesia barata
de facebook status.

não houve
atualização da humanidade.