descobertos

os peitos pequenos
fazem um peito aberto:
planície rasa e exposta
bem no meio
onde você crava,
vermelha,
a chave que eu te dei

Porta de Giz

Hoje a vida acordou te mandando
ser corajosa
com as coisas pequenas
com o chá e o fogo,
com os discos velhos
riscados
e os intactos.
Te mandou ter coragem no trânsito,
no transtorno do chuveiro frio,
para entrar no elevador,
ter coragem com a literatura e a televisão.
A coragem aterrorizada
dos heróis de ficção científica
que sabem que vivem apenas
um episódio de quarenta minutos.

Página

não é uma ameaça, minha partida.
não é blefe, tampouco.
minha partida é um risco contínuo
dessa linha que corta
da ponta de cá
até a beira da página tímida.

ou a folha preenche de cores, abre-se,
origami
ou o risco da caneta transcreve
e rasga o ar.

é a falta de cabimento:
é o caber sem pertencer
que deixo para trás
feito caroço.

quero a página transbordante de linhas e curvas,
cheiro de tinta fresca.
O ponto sem nó, as doze vírgulas,
e aquele agradecimento periférico,
eles, meu amor,
eu nego.
não me ofereça alternativas, um p.s,
notas de rodapé.
Ou bem a escolha que desencolhe,
ou bem o horizonte.

Corvos e gaivotas: música dissonante.
A Normandia é um cemitério à beira-mar

Ovelhas e gaivotas: varas de pescar e lã
Não cabe no cartão postal
Como faz pra caber? A mão traça
retas, separa

repara bem:A Normandia é imensa.

O Sertão vai virar mar.
e o mar

spade a spade

you may not want the flower,
but I'm all out of the fruit.

can you smell the rose? Would you take my hand?
Can you could you ever understand?

we're all out of the fruit. I'm not going back.

I love you. I love you all. But
the only water in the forest
is the river

if you want the old pond
if you can't handle waterfalls
i love you all
but I'll see you on the other side

I know because you have two different kinds of curls

my finger knows your fair thin skin
the right temple,
where your eyes go to hide

my finger knows your thick brown skin, the sweat on your nose
your left temple
where your eyes go to lie

your pointy fingers, your silent nails
the sweetness of your honest pulse

your rounded fingers, your small home hands
the drumbeat of your open heart

I know because of your hair
I know because of your curls

because of your narrow curls that smile, when I touch my fingers on them
scheming unseeming from my firm hands

because of your wide long curls that glide down over your shoulder as I brush them away and they lay gently over my bare hands

I know I love you because of your curls
That's how
I know I love you both

autobiography

I had hair
the longest, straightest, finest hair.
they said I was scared of change, he said I was a nymph, they said I was a christian
they said I should cut it they said I should never cut it
they said I was afraid of change.

I was born under the sun. The sun held my feet as the doctor pulled me up (like a cheap ringo tune, you know it don't come easy). I was no natural, I was late. Born under the sun, ten days overdue, my flaming father looked through my soles said go be my daughter, go untame lions, exchange words and part the oceans, so I did. So by his sign I resigned to yellow the fields. So I yellowed and I blued the fields. A child with the blues of ages, father sun father son. His was my kingdom and I learned to burn. and light. and travel light. Except for the one luggage I owe my creator, yours truly the hair of gold.

At fourteen they cut right through me (could have been fifteen, she always says. I say fourteen cause I count them all at once: the cut the stain the drought, the flames). They gave me the blade, but not the knive. It's yours to bare but I'll walk by your side. She asked did I want it gone, I said never. Scars are canvas and wood: what is underneath a painting when all colors have gone? I was fourteen and I used the straw to cover my face: with the illness and cure came Him, grandfather godfather of the dark and dead, I'm not afraid of your deep pits. he came to bless me from below, I would address him mr wolf. I covered my face like my godfather said, so the judges couldn't see through, my smile magnet-tar-pit-trap. I got by, I made it through the matador corridor.

In a year or so it was finaly pushed back. one boy or three, they'd slide down with ease. over your back my back your bare hands my chest your tongue I was too young. Veil. The sun down my back, father I can't lose track, where is it what's the time? When do I come in flying blade at hand for the kill, the offering to the god of light. father sun father son.

What is it with the hair? What is it with the skin so fair... you make for a nice little red ridding hood, child, your make for a nice neck to bite through. I sat in silence, she is a burnette. My yellow was the chords in sore voice, the knotted rope down my tower, could you ever climb up?
What is it with the hair? Change is everlasting time is a cancer eating away, I'd say. Time and space have devoured my home, time and space have declared me shipwreck. But my father stands over my head, he shines and commands: stability and order in his realm. There will be stability, and memories I'll tie around it. The hair is simple, I'd explain. The hair is the only thing you can't break. 'You're afraid of change'. I'm simply holding on.

It started simple, easy, with image. It started as it should: from the trunk. In dream I met a god. He was a strong man with purple skin, and eyes of a bright blue, the shapes of fish. He told me his name was Mart, oh din y any other, but him. I saw the tree, the sails in thee. I sat down on the stone steps where fighters once stood, and I heard inside the machine someone sobbing an old song. It hurt to eat, to love, to root. It hurt to sit, so I stood. I walked and stumbled upon the Jack of cups, selling his own good luck: going to ten months and no arrest, come with us, we'll be your test. I walked the city and I knew, the battle's lost but not my crew. I walked through Manhattan and I knew, the battle's over: now begins you. The bead broke, the clock stroke two. Where I found an abandoned garden, there I left it to sow: I, yes, take my blood and take my seed, concrete. father sun has little to perceive. In waking and wine I met a second god: Choose, said the elephant man. It's in the trunk. The coin and the charter were my first strip. Here is the real skin. It hurts, she said, breathe in and let me show them what you hold within. The image uncoveres real skin. The pain discovers, a shot of in. And there it was. My real skin was made of tree, no leafs, no flowers, I'm sure it's me.

Oh father sun father son, could you ever forever rest in me, I still gazed upon creation as an anguished child of thee. But the undraping had begun, and not even He could bare his daughter's burn. Mask after mask, I decided in sleep. Mask under mask, I will shed. Mask under mask I will burn. Sun after sun I will cast upon myself, until there's nothing left but me. The right moment had come, when the snow-white boy made a break for the vast plains. As I watched him go, half the weight of the first mask fell down a thousand stone steps, clanking and shining as it went. Kitchen scisors, no more, no less, show me my breasts. She cut and snipped, strip me from what I can't see. No father, it was not the mask that holds me to thee, I need no straw to reign at your feet. I am not afraid of change, dear friend. I am afraid of myself. I lie in the shadows I rest inside wells. I am beast and I lash, I am wolves and man, I am the shadow behind your only true door. I am terrified, my friend, and wouldn't you be? When walking in darkness I listen for me. In dark mirrors I smile a terrible smile, and chaos reigns, in deep oceans I swim and the sailors I break. I am the fear and the tiger, I am the darkness and the monster behind every single door.

It was decided, and I had no choice. Start slowly, I wispered, so a lick of blue sea I asked of Ie mother ocean indeed. Your yellow is too strong, father, too heavy over me. I need to breathe. Ie's tears made way for me: my ocean is in you, child, survive and you're free. In due time nursing shadows, the cliff rose higher and I could dream. Over the cliff a bench stood precarious against the rock. We watched the ocean and the city below, we waited for the last show: the monster rose slowly from the deep, the whale is coming, child, you're nearly free. Who is he I asked desperately, hush daughter, now sleep. Your masks are all falling, and soon you will breathe, He's no one, she said in my years as I fell asleep, no monster can rise, but the whale it seems.

As I woke up from the blue dream, realising the red stain underneath, all the shadows around danced graceful around my bed. The name of the last curtain is red. I read the prophecy over and over and backwords, but the weight over my lids was strong, and from there I struck: the blade is done, gone. silence all the swords. To shed all the masks you must fight them no more: the hairs grow thick, cockroach legs around my pubis. The hair grows strong: vines in dark pits hold the corner of your eye. From legs a corn-field, I am not afraid of your colorful nails, I will stand up strong, rest my blade on the sand, I fight not myself, not in my own command. And the goddess dances, when I see our ropes feathers our gardens of us, the climbing plants over our stones, uncut. I am uncut, I will be uncut. The blade that rested on the ground will serve better purpose, it is found: cut here, if you please, a piece of my father, the string of straw blessed by my godfather, kissed by Ie mother, and hiding my eyes. Cut here for me, as I can't go alone, lend me your hands, that I may with them roam: open my eyes and let my armour go.
A spot for breath near the skull. A place for rest when I have sown. I thank you truly for you have shown. My friend, my love, when the cut bleeds I hear the song. The song is distant but it frees, softly and in blasts, step by step: do not fear the ancient beast. Than you for helping me hold the blade. Now before you go, hand me that arrow, I need to listen, I need to hear the voice that sings so deep within. Pierce me another tube: I will listen with care, my child, I can hear your tune. I have an arrow, I will not go hungry. Pain is relevant. Alive is a complicated word, tenses are difficult.

I stare into the mirror and I know she's still far, but I see in the distance and can feel her march. The drum beats, the skin prickles. My friends, I remember you: fear of change is not and will never be. Change is becoming, shedding, undraping, change is everlasting. I fear me, and I will fear me. Because when I arrive ships will sink, oceans will open, deserts will spread and a tiny little girl will understand things only the gods know. From the shadows I rise and I mean you no harm. I've just come to claim the body that's mine. There is an arrow zooming through the air: I can see the tree where it will land. I can't see her quite yet, father sun, but she carries all your gifts, and she's already begun. Every change in the mirror is a surprise: I stare expecting confusion and a new name. All I see is, still far off and hazy, the image getting clearer. All I see is a closer shot at describing me. There is no escape and no need for fear: I don't know her name, but she's gorgeous, she's almost here.

Every tiny chosen and mistaken change I make makes me look a tiny bit more like me.

APOROS

procuro em vão.
para você são todos,
e nenhum.

procuro em vão um plágio inverso:
um verso que diga tudo
o que meus excessos calam.
uma palavra que supra
sufice
surface
que suba à superfície a deusa dela.
que não seja minha
que cortine, cortiça, a minha única palavra cega.

Para você são todas, e nenhuma.
os poemas dela engasgam nas minhas
cordas curtas
e grossas.

quero te dizer um copo d'água
quero te dizer um pote de mel
quero te dizer uma pequena orquídea
           Azul.

verbete do desespero

introduzo um ponto na superfície calma
a linha alarga, atravessa, cruza léguas desenfreada
tudo é feito de tsunami

esconde a palma da mão debaixo da mesa
limpa o suor na toalha
segura a faca e corta, abre a mata, ninguém responde atrás das bananeiras

é do mesmo fio que tece o tapete, é do mesmo fio do telefone de lata dos vizinhos
eu te amo de fio e tsunami
eu não te amo de fio e tsunami
eu te amo de dentro da casa, por cima do muro
eu não te amo por baixo dos últimos capachos,
acima dos telhados.

Não existe superfície, a película da água é lâmina
os peixes abissais estão transbordando de bocas abertas
jogados em fileiras na rede de um pescador sozinho.

conta três dias
não morre
não mata
conta três dias

us

I'm afraid of loving you more
of loving you less
of the flow the gentle rock row row row our boats
gently down the stream

of where the stream can go
of where the stream can grow
of the river, the dance
of the ocean, the trance

you is plural
you is ever so plural
I could splash "you" in a wide screen of colors
over the mountains and under my pillow
you is plural
you is ever so plural

We are in grave danger
I have no control, I have no clue, I have no key
I have a box of choices and chocolates
I have a jar of milk, a bucket of mudd
We have paddles with holes in them, for the ants to walk through
(the paddle needs breathing, you said, and I knew)

the ants go marching

no rocks know bottom
no divers can tell
in the driver's seat it's visions you sell

we is singular
we is ever so singular

two dice, and a couple of tiny white mice
I carry in our boat,
a llama, three small iguanas
our arc afloat.

the three of us are ancient trees,
the wind that blew us to our knees
sits still and quiet as we whisper,
tunes
as the the wind sets sail to the moon,
last time we were there it was too soon
Will I love you more, will I love you less
from the river, ocean, but that's just my guess.

we are a willow tree, we own the forest, we save the bees.
rock me gently and trust in me,
I am the ocean, we sail to me.

We is singular.

one
two

and three.

Pânico de terrorismo

                                                            [para marília garcia, com seu ritmo na cabeça]

I

5 ou 6 de fevereiro de 2010,
Guarulhos - Salvador - Frankfurt - outro aeroporto de Frankfurt - Milão
23 horas, se não me engano.
"life is crazy, candy baby" was the text I wrote him on the way to the airport
10 horas de sono, 5 dias
contas que eu fiz para dar conta de coisas imensas que não envolviam números
eu estava afundando, e flutuando sobre uma fina camada de falsete do caetano

Salvador - Frankfurt: o voo mais barato do Brasil à Europa
mais conhecido como uma péssima ideia
pesei mal as malas. nunca pesei bem uma mala se quer em toda a minha vida
faz parte de quem eu sou: pesar mal as malas. e me auto-flagelar porque não sei pesar
(again: numbers to try and figure out numberless things. não tenho memória para números, mas me lembro desses. Porque eles não são números, porque eles são desculpas)
wait for it:
me lembro de dormir a cada segundo de cada meio de transporte
pra compensar
a falta de sono, a despedida, o medo putaquepariu que medo.
Frankfurt. frio. ônibus. outro aeroporto - Frankfurt.

Como eu disse, pesei mal as malas. A moça da tam também pesou mal as malas
balança brasileira, balança alemã, racionalidade, números, tropicalismo etc e tal.
voo low cost, low bagage all that jazz:
overweight.
poucas notas de cem euros para durar ate arranjar um trabalho.
a única brasileira da fila: de joelhos no chão abrindo a mala e pesando:
o que fica, o que vai. o que vale dinheiro, o que vale pagar sobrepeso.
sobrepeso era uma boa metáfora.
concluí rápido: dispensar a malinha cor-de-rosa. (odiava a power ranger cor-de-rosa quando criança, queria ser a amarela porque eu não era princesinha. ia ser fácil)
nada é fácil. ler poesia é fácil. comer, talvez.
arranquei metade de um caderno. também cor-de-rosa, que surpresa. (que caralhos de diferença fariam metade das folhas de um caderno?)
Não me lembro mais o que ficou na mala cor-de-rosa. Lembro só de uma calça caqui. Feia. Eu usava, era quente, mas era meio feia.
Pensei em guardar a mala num locker. Ia custar. Não ia ter quem buscar.
Não conheço ninguém em Frankfurt, não quero nada com Frankfurt.

Despachei as outras, peguei a mala rosa pela mão, andei em direção ao embarque. Comecei a chorar porque achei que isso era coisa de criança. Errar o peso, não ter dinheiro, largar uma mala.
Chorei bastante de vergonha, e larguei a mala.
Assim, como se não fosse nada. Mas chorando.
Um oficial me apontou a mala, com cara de pergunta
Fiz que não com a cabeça, chorando.
Fui andando pro embarque, como se não tivesse largado uma mala, por sobrepeso
inventei as metáforas todas do desapego, e só depois percebi:
pânico de terrorismo.
oficiais indo em direção à minha mala, gente confusa, putos da vida comigo, quando entendessem que eu não tinha uma bomba.
eu só tinha levado mais do que devia pra passar seis meses sem dinheiro na europa
e comecei tendo que largar tudo, uma malinha cor de rosa, várias folhas de um caderno, etc.

II

25 de janeiro de 2015: ônibus de Amsterdam pra Paris
muito menos drama, um fim de semana, nada de mais
(sem grandes pesos de mala e horas de sono pra cobrir alguma coisa. sem despedidas nem falsetes do caetano. só andei pelo Jordan e conheci um homem chamado Lake, só aprendi a dizer hipopótamo em holandes e conheci um bluesista da California. só o quarto de Anne Frank e cartões postais para a minha mãe. só)
arrumar a mala no escuro das 8 da manhã de inverno num quarto de hostel com mais 17 pessoas
(números)
uma sacola de sobras, uma sacola de compras, e carteira, e bolsa, e o que mais não coube.
Chegando em Paris eu tinha:
uma malinha preta, uma mochila cinza, uma sacola de plástico amarela.

Chegando em Paris metrô até aí tudo bem umas 20 estações
(números)
Chegando na estação Charles Degaulle Etoile (acho um desperdício de nome. adoro nomes de estações, e acho um desperdício ter o mesmo nome do aeroporto. por sorte eu parti por Orly, e a viagem ganhou um nome a mais)
chegando nela, o mapa. o mapa e o caderninho, as indicações do apartamento:
24 rue arc de triomphe código para abrir a porta etcétera
olho o mapa, apoio a sacola. segue pelo arco até a mac mahon (imagino uma história sobre o detetive Mack Marrom, que desvenda crimes dublado ao lado de seu cão na sessão da tarde)
Saí da estação, andei em torno do arco do triunfo
que é feio, mas também é bonito.
achei a rua do detetive, achei a rua do apartamento, digitei o código da porta, subi as escadas
abracei sentei falei três frases e a terceira foi cadê minha sacola
coloquei de volta o casaco desci correndo as escadas corri de volta todas as ruas em volta do arco do triunfo
saída do metrô por onde saí entrar por onde saí
(retrace my own steps. sounds like I found my metaphore again right there)
o mapa. deveria ter sido no mapa
(sounds like I found my metaphore right there)
tenho três coisas na mão. no mapa peguei o caderninho: três coisas na mão
a sacola não estava no chão, embaixo do mapa
senhor da loja ao lado me vê e pergunta "brazil?"
oui, brazil.
ele me aponta o guichê onde três funcionários do metrô de Paris me olham e um pergunta:
brazil?
Dentro do guichê do metrô minha sacola foi aberta, e todos os meus pertences
esquisitos
estão dispostos sobre o balcão
a cena é engraçada, e dessa vez eu já pensei rapidamente:
pânico de terrorismo
(Paris em pleno pós-charlie e eu largando esquecendo deixando abandonando
desligada distraída esquecida irresponsável perdida uma sacola amarela no metrô Charles Degaulle Etoile)
"nenhuma notícia, não deu tempo da tua sacola parar paris" - ela brincou.
parar paris.

Eu entrando no guichê vou rindo com vergonha
(rir de vergonha. 27 anos X 22 anos. números. crescer e rir de vergonha. ou nada tem a ver uma história com a outra e o pânico se mede em peso: sacola mala, ônibus avião, fim de semana seis meses. 22 anos, 27.)
vou rindo e pedindo pardon (depois me toquei que devia ter dito desole, mas não me acostumo com desole), e merci beaucoup pardon merci pardon merci.
E o moço tenta me explicar alguma coisa, mas ele também está rindo
Todos os meus pertences perdidos, por 10 minutos (números) enfileirados randomicamente
enfileirar de um jeito randômico: números para coisa inumeráveis.
Lápis do museu Van Gogh, dois. Borracha do museu Van Gogh, uma.
Cartões do Stedelijk, da Anne Frank Huis, uma pilha de moedas
o saquinho de sal que fica na minha carteira porque tenho pressão baixa
papeis, meu cartão de embarque, de uma semana atrás
incenso de uma loja indiana de Amsterdam
minha cartela de pílula, meu RG.
(O passaporte não. o passaporte estava no bolso do casaco suado de correr em mim. O passaporte eu não ia perder)
Eu não perdi as moedas nem a borracha do Van Gogh
Eu não perdi nada
pardon merci beaucoup
Nada se perde
Nada se perde tudo se

nada se perde, tudo se enfileira no guichê do metro Charles Degaulle Etoile
pra ser analisado
é o que acontece com os amigos, com os amores que acabam
é o que acontece com o dinheiro e com as chances, é o que acontece com a infância
vai tudo pro guichê do metro Charles Degaulle Etoile e os funcionários no M de Paris
fazem uma ficha sua:
uma cartela de pílulas, 2 namorados e um terceiro grande amor
umas amizades coloridas mal-resolvidas
dois lápis do museu Van Gogh
uma malha familiar mal costurada, a virgindade,
o medo de altura, de abrir os olhos debaixo d'água
a pressa aquele bichinho de pelúcia, muitas fotos em um computador que quebrou
Os dentes de leite os dentes do ciso
a sacola de plástico amarela que nem a power ranger
a casa da infância, mais uns dois ou três amores
tudo para o guichê de compra e venda, os achados e perdidos do mundo
no metrô Charles Degaulle Etoile.

a mala cor-de-rosa não vai estar no guichê do metro Charles Degaulle Etoile,
porque a mala cor-de-rosa eu não perdi, eu larguei.
largar é um verbo bonito, que causa pânico de terrorismo.

As we sit cross-legged on the carpet and face each other's white socks
I wait for a couple of words to fly in through the open window
hands fast asleep, meditating a cup of tea
we cast shadows on walls, tree trunks are less lasting than our hunched backs
as we sit, knee to knee, under the house made of three sticks, we wait.
and

leaves waterfall out the windows of every building, flowers blossom and snow down the avenues
as we sit, eye to eye, we wait
strings of red from the carpet under our feet untangle, rip away,
strings of green from the carpet below our shoulders unsow unsolve,
into wool, back as sheep, into nothingness.
the wooden floor of the attick, as we sit white-socked, clouded and patient, thins,
un-carves its own calves, our calves float over nothing.
the walls around, as we wait, fill themselves with mould, paper-pealed, parted concrete from form:
dis-form, implode, dust into our hairs, cover our eye-lashes in white ends.
we're monks who meditate under the wreckage of a house: but there is no house. Around us, float furniture, fly away couches and chairs, a refrigerator is sucked to the moon, and we, cross-legged, white-socked, dressed in our pijamas, float over a city.
the city slowly unwinds its clocks, unscrolls its parchments, unmasks the smallest of towns.
below our floating bodies walk horses and donkeys, a small farmer's market, a woman milks a cow.
as we sit. as we wait. dusted and cross-legged, hands on knees, fingers slightly, vaguely, ifly touching,
birds sing and fly their conscious goodbyes, tell each other stories of future skyes in fiction tries, remember the elderly, and all at once become just feathers
and the feathers fall over our heads, future pillow-fights we should have had.
clouds then finaly decide the moment is theirs: build up storms, form flocks of cotton lead:
rain on us and our land.
as we sit, as we wait, lightening overhead,
the flood itself has never had more time to spread
now water takes hold and the small town has gone, fields of kelp and blue whales form below our floating figures, our monk-like-knees, our four white socks.
and they too, the whales, tsunamis and coral reefs become, in time, a practiced rhyme of crayons on a little girl's drawing. and the color melts under our sky, solving oceans, mysteries, lies and shoals of fish.
mountains crumble, stones dissolve, predators and prey bravely melt away.

as we wait, patiently and still, floating over all

The air itself in sparkles tries to discharge, to tell its own story, static energy flies through our still bodies, and touched by color it strikes its last echoe. time and air fly out the designated trap-door made of nothing.

trees, books, stories and shoes, colors, tigers, mothers and pieces of gum. mathmatishians, stars, pools and concepts, cartoons, revolutions, items of clothing and peaches, cars, washing machines, science and neurons, poems, tastes, caves, lions foxes bears oh my, people and things, comets, networks, fishermen, sea turtles, colar-bones. The world is over.

Now, finaly, there is nothing. There is nothing at all. We sit, cross-legged, fingers almost touching, in our pijamas, facing each other. Nothing below our floating figures, nothing, at all, above our heads. We could watch the final episode now, the season finale. Maybe we could, now, lay down side by side and let our white-socked-feet touch, and we could watch the end.
Or, we could sit here forever, after all is gone, with nothing else to do, I could sit here forever with you. I will sit here forever with you.