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.