Tuesday, December 2, 2014

I am going away

- A ticket please.
To where? Where am I going?
He doesn't listen, the phone rings.
- Hello? Yes, the 395 has arrived, no, no madam, it's already here.
An overwhelming odor reminiscent of old piss take over all senses, incrusted at the cracks on the hexagon shaped pave. A smell that takes over the cheap yellow disinfectant.
Hangover eyes spy from the windows in the twilight.
No, not Machado de Assis Capitu's eyes, real hangover eyes, dark circles, drooled faces.
The luggage is ready. Empty. Bare feet. Chopped up hair.
- A ticket please.
A mother cries inconsolable at  the 416's door. The daughter waves with the somnolent baby's hand as she climbs the steps backwards. The driver sighs condescendingly.
I think about the letter. Scented with an imaginary lavender sprig, folded meticulously and geometrically in daring origami. A whole life to say in words everything that was here, chocking.
The engine starts loud, stinking Diesel. The mother drags away as if she carried the bus on her back.
- Where are you going mam?
What then? The though breaks like an echo. 
I don't want to go where everyone is going with this faces of wanting to stay. The list indifferently pointing concrete defined fates, pinned as eternal at the same place.
It's late, thankfully, the distracted vendor continues to stare at something under the counter. This one has arrived. I think.
I place the wallet on the greasy counter. The empty bag makes my shoulder ligaments tremble in exhaustion.
- Where Miss?
- I am going away - I smile, a light suddenly glistening in the eyes. I sit the luggage on the ground. Identity on the balcony. The vendor continues on and on with his insidious tone: "the wallet Miss". His voice slowly disappear, as does the station, the clothes, the pain. Just anticipation propelling the molecules: forward, forward, into the infinite I dive.
On the desk of that dark room, the empty sheet folded as a bird suddenly flies out of the window.

Friday, November 14, 2014


Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tick tick
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock
Thin ticks
Thick tocks
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tacky tick atacks
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock

Friday, May 23, 2014



guide your steps
certify what attracts you to north

Stop oscillating gyroscopic needle
the law that leads you
is greater than your obstinacy

Walker of mysterious paths
burying thorns
at your tender hands
as you inhale that scent
of the rose,
the rose of the winds

And if suddenly paths turns to abysses
do not return,
your mission is the bridge

That bridge,
built at the cost of sap
cutted from the native trees
in the forest of your dreams

And you will see that it is good
when suspended above the abyss
you finally cross to the other side

When your feet step
the first grains
of foreign lands
a house
a gate
a road
a plaque
Stake your flag

Afterward shake the dust,
and observe at dawn
colors not yet visited
cities yet to build

Do not dim that indelible light
that longs to shine at windows
still distant in silhouette
in the shadow of your will

Read the tiny prints
On the footer margins
vital words
hiding treasures you shall conquer

When the salt touch your skin
assemble reeds
make your raft
waver on the great waters

Do not be haughty
Your standing position
will show you the horizon
however it will hide the firmament
and the traps under your feet
and up there
on that firmament
sliding open
will tell you about stars
optical illusions
namely: there is one North
and it is precise

If the monsters of the seas roar
if the winds howl
tie yourself to the raft
be deaf
until the morning star
the bonanza
wake you up to the music of dolphins

And when you finally anchor
raise the pillars of a new port
that will open doors
to the whole world

Hug people
make yourself fish
feed the hunger
with the bread you brought from there
that bread made of hidden wheat
beaten on wine presses no longer stepped

Be peace
if you want peace
cry the wounded
the lost
and never forget
the forgotten

Carry on your back
the password to fire
dance arrivals
cry departures

Surely you will trace
lines opposed to yours
and in each encounter
a milestone
a new cross on your nautical chart
coincidences in points
tracing the web
of a large skein

Tie needed nodes
and untie away
strings that don't play music

The tension
is just to tune you
to produce that imperfect
and accurate twang
that will complete the musical score

Listen to the voice of many waters
Gush your sweetness
to the thirsty desert
of indifference

Dart yourself over your strength
over conveniences
over appearances
and never give up

At the end
Dig on that ground
your ultimate cross
your last encounter

When the shovel touch that chest,
that cardinal point
and hidden amongst boards
find the big treasure: