personal sounds

i no longer like this city's streets i walk. i liked this city best when it was the one we knew and loved, the city we drank in one night back in 78, while sitting on the sidewalk with starlight burning our eyelids.

can't forget the day you woke up and the sun was up and shinning -- the neighborhood children sang outside, in our front law, happy childish songs. coffee aroma was all around, sounds of jazz spilling from the rusty vinyl: Nina Simone poured her soul and my ears were delighted. the song's lyrics went like this:

"Sinnerman where you gonna run to
Sinnerman where you gonna run to...

and your entire body shook with energy as you danced to the sound of music, turning around and around, twirling. your lips, like ripe red cherries, were parted, singing the lyrics with the heart of a gospel choir. your torso was bathed in sunlight, your sandy hair shone bright. your hands, up in the air, clapped in the rhythm and you raised your voice, letting all the spirits out, waking up the long lost, asleep feelings inside my heart; you sang and sang, even if your high-pitched voice can't really carry a tune. you were not minding. you were lost in your moment.

your eyes were shut and your voice was like thunder in that early morning. it went through me like a lightening bolt, an powerful discharge of joy, as i sang the lyrics too...

"So I run to the lord
Please help me lord
Don't you see me prayin?
Don't you see me down here prayin?

in that moment you opened your eyes and smiled widely to me. you came to me and took my hand and we danced all the hours of that early morning, nonstop, to the sound of old jazz beats ¿ all my records, like Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie... we danced like dead souls had taken over our bodies, demanding to dance like the living once more or like lovely, devilish puppets of sound.

but now we can no longer sing and dance: our song is over, Sinnerman, we've lost our moment. our morning is just over and our (your) actions made us grow apart...

paranóia

só faz o mal.
me arrependo do que escrevi ali abaixo,
mas não apago,
só de pirraça!

é minha teimosia
que se recusa a me deixar caducar de vez,
deixar tudo pra trás.

guardarei até as lembranças dos maus momentos.

amizade
(ou uma possível cura para esse terrível mal que aflige nossas crianças)

olha, já não sou mais tão jovem,
e cansei de pequenas mentiras e estórias,
cansei de acreditar em pequenas coisas
e achar um tesouro em todos os pequenos gestos,
lendo entrelinhas que, na verdade, não existem.

cansei de correr a milha extra,
sempre unilateral.
cansei de esperar saber de você
por outra pessoa, ou só esbarrar com você na rua.

cansei de ouvir você chorar no telefone
e você nunca ter o tempo (ou vontade,
ou paciência) pra me ouvir chorar.

cansei de rimar.

meu otimismo agora só vê meio copo vazio,
meio copo de whiskey sentado no balcão,
afogando a minha consciência e boa vontade,
meu bom humor, meu sorriso, nossa amizade.

estou farta de quebrar os galhos,
ou de esperar receber um telefonema
em que você ligaria por saudade
ou pra saber de mim.

serei a bêbada chata que estraga a festa,
que é inconveniente e amarga,
repetitiva e sem graça
e que desaparece por uma boa década.

estou velha, estou cansada,
sua amizade não vale nada,
e eu estou cansada de sempre me desculpar.

não que te importe, mas meus dentes doem
e o mundo me incomoda.

boa noite, não apareça na minha porta
com sua vida em frangalhos,
ou com sua felicidade ou fiascos,
a não ser que você mude de vida
e comece a ser um pouco mais legal.

positive and giving demeanor is wonderful and inspiring. when people are like that, it feels good to be around. please, be nicer.

yeah. the title said it all.

i keep looking for little excuses

if you don't feel good around me anymore,
if i drink too much and i'm starting to bore,
you can get up and leave, disappear for a while
'cause i can't stand seeing your sad smile.

i keep looking for things to drag me down:
they way your eyes roll or every time you yawn,
your loud, angry steps on the wooden floor
or the countless tantrums: you go slamming doors.

i wish, for once, that you would come up to me
and say: "why? why are you so blind to see?"
and then care to explain all the things
i did wrong or, at least, something like this

because i am getting tired and can no longer bare
the silence and hate you carry in your stare.
so, i understand if you no longer wish to stay!
just please leave quietly while i look away...

comments sumiram e eu não sei porque

the rhythm method

put on a good mood tonight.
we'll have coffee or a good red wine...
let the tastes mingle, oh so fine!
we'll drink and talk - not fight.

put your body in my hands, be mine.
have a babycake, read a poem...
'cause later i wanna hear you moan
while i caress the line of your spine.

spread a blanket on the floor
and lay down, rest your head...
or, if you like more, we can go to bed
(just let me check if i locked the door)

late at night

i feel, wrapped around my fingers,
tiny particles of loneliness
and a sweet melancholy smoke,
that surrounds and lingers.

i can't seem to wash it off:
i've tried soap, bleach, love!
nothing worked, nothing moved.
a problem and no solution thereof.

yet, it doesn't feel so bad.
i've been in this place before...
(so i like it even more
the silence that is gold - not sad)

fingers on refresh, please, ladies and gents.

blogger sucks ass. if everything disappears, it's not my fault. please stand by and try again later. it will come back to normal soon.

black history month

so, I've come to the conclusion that being alone isn't the best thing i can do with my life. I've enjoyed many moments of inevitable loneliness, but that was all an illusion.

i know I've created my own safe haven, my own top of mount desolation and there I've sat there, at my own will and played god: watching the tiny, puny humans walking the streets that never sleep, oblivious to the fact that i was watching from above. but here i am. i came down from my tower and i now walk among the ones I've despised for so long.

it felt comfortable to be a coward, to hide from my true feelings and circumstances. yet, i couldn't hide any longer. I've had to take a leap back in time, to drink and dance and see the sights from my town, smell scents and colors, while passing my eyes through dark bars, looking for a young man looking just like you back in our glory days.

i remember those hot, American nights. bowling alleys, midnight tacos over cold, cheap beers. so now i sit here, remembering, watching the light's reflection on the window of this small, smoky coffee shop. i light up a cigarette and take a long sip from my mug, drinking it's bittersweet, black content. i feel the hot contentment settle down in the pit of my stomach, leaving a fire trail down my throat...

it burns, yet it's so good, the sensation tingles all the way down my spine. it reminds me of the trail of moist kisses you used to lay on my skin, my bare shoulders on a cold night, in your bed underneath the window. it was chilly, i remember: the hairs on the back of your neck were up and you licked your lips, while looking at me with that giant hunger in your eyes - dilated pupils, smooth and black, exciting the senses of my heart.

i remember those nights... you used to trap me on the mattress, using the length of your legs, holding gently my face between your palms. that palms that were a fountain of wonder, of amazement. you used to prop yourself up in one elbow, and turn on the radio next to your pillow: smooth tunes would play and lull us to sleep... you used to tell soft tales, and put my hand on top of your heart so i could feel the sooting vibrations. you would shush me gently, sweetly, telling me to let the wine do it's effect, telling me to let dreams come to my eyes.

but i would not let them come! i would fight nature but, since it was stronger than me, it would too soon come back to reclaim my body and soul. it was so powerfull, and yet so silent. i could not fight it... time would go and your breathing would become rhythmic. and nature, well, it would always be waiting in the shadow, invincible and incredible, closing my eyes with it's force and putting me to sleep.

but my trip down memory lane doesn't last long. i come out of my daydreaming at the sound of the bored waitress' voice:

"ma'am, would you like some more coffee?" - she says, rolling her eyes with impatience. i tell her yes and i get a refill. i guess I'll just sit here, drinking more and more coffee or maybe, later, I'll get up and go people-watching down the street, among the drunks that the neighbors wish that weren't there. I'll join them in their drunk confusion, in their clear melancholy, in their dark places inside their eyes...

because tonight, i don't wanna go home. I've been home for so long that the place no longer feels like home - it feels like a giant, silent hole, only house of the disregarded.

and i, i feel old and a little tired, but my mind is running young and fast and i need to walk the city to find you once again.

wait for me 'cause i am coming over
(and please, make coffee 'cause i am drunk)

so, i am sitting here, drunk
with the face of a kid who stuck
the fork in the toaster.

and i am getting older
but not doing any better:
i am turning back my shoulder
to the ones i love best...

this ain't no test
of my love - 'cause i'm a douche!
this is a hard, gray stone
i am throwing in neighbors' roof.

in my friends' roofs AND faces.

so, imagine me, shitfaced drunk
in your front yard -
drunk, fall down drunk. oh my!
screaming poems that make no sense
just like this one,
that is here, that is almost done!
that i'll write in a piece of paper
and drive fast and far
to your house.

please leave your door ajar.
i'll put on some clothes,
i'll get into my car.
(but where the fuck are my keys?)
and i'll drive.

'cause i don't know what to do anymore
so instead of sitting here, drunk and sore,
trying to find the damn car keys,
i'll go to your house,
and hug you for a long time
'cause you're my friend, the best,
the one i love and care the most!

so, while i go, please pray,
that i don't smash my car into a lamp post.

nightbirds

puxei uma cadeira e sentei em frente à janela da sala, às 18 e pouco e bebi vinho barato, uma boa meia garrafa, até sentir tintilarem as pontas dos dedos. cantarolei uma canção tristonha, internamente, murmurando as palavras suavemente enquanto expirava o ar úmido da tarde.

apaguei as luzes e deixei as últimas migalhas de dia iluminarem a casa.

escutei cantarem os pássaros... os gatos ficaram alvoroçados com o barulho e pularam, e ficaram rondando, roçando nas minhas pernas. pequenos pássaros de peito amarelo, bicando aqui e ali e cantaram, cantaram...

cantarolei mais alto agora...

And niiiightbirds siiiing yoooou
An empty tune
In an empty house
In an empty room
In an empty moment
All the niiiiightbirds siiiiiiiing
We were supposed to rise aboooooooove
But we siiiiiiiink
iiiiinto the ooooocean

acabou que espantei os pássaros com meu canto desafinado, mas vi eles voarem e cantarem mais alto na janela do andar de baixo, e senti tudo e nada naquele momento, o preenchimento e o vazio.

me senti o próprio complexo humano, complexa e simples e falei, por entre os dentes, um agradecimento ao grande Siddhartha por apenas estar viva e ainda ter capacidade de, ao menos, chorar e rir.