mort mot juste

novembro 30, 2008

the glass

a hand rests on a wooden surface.
this image was the cheapest to be found
and i bought it for that particular reason.
getting home i sweeped the obstacles
out of my way and i opened it and it read:
the hand has a decrepit knowledge etched upon yellow
skin, violet veins. the hand with unreal fingernails
taps the wood lightly, redundantly
and in perfect, inviolable conformity with death.

i close it, fold it, caress it, lay it carefully in a drawer.
the image is safe in my forgetful drawer.

a glowing hand (young legs crossed, summer dress) restless
on the same wooden surface surprises me in an evening walk.
i had only gone out to watch the trees
but this hand leaves an imprint so warm on the glass--
the glass i had missed before but now i can distinguish,
tall, reaching the limp legs of half-eaten stars,
thick, hearing nothing, sparing nothing from its
inexorable isolation and silence-- i am bound to listen.
and yet nothing, not a sound from either side
can reach the other--
the glass so tall and so perpetual
suffocates all intentions and allows nothing
but a (hazy now, hopeless now) view

a homesick regard that invents the past but doesn't quite reach it.

maria 8:39 PM 3 vociferando estavam

novembro 24, 2008

sea

.



.



.


the sky is an apology written backwards.

maria 1:29 PM 2 vociferando estavam

novembro 20, 2008

the carnival

a face pinned to a stem
occured to me yesterday

am i excused to exhale
inebriated roses
behind the mistletoe

when no one is looking
you whirl and hum

i take lush notes i get beaten up

i walk along wide sidewalks
my feet are slaves to the straight line still

i see their faces smell the pink-colored fog
every building each lamp post
covered and misted

merrily going around
the faces are not misted
ghosts have always had such
clear faces

down here after the casualties
have been counted
(one ladybird, one grasshopper,
a couple of stray dogs, a starfish
a blue plastic unicorn
and a chicken)
we count the visible spots of sky

i do not leave you
i'm bound to stay here and die in a day
stealing lines from an authorless history
i do not leave you
down here every eye
is a small ferris wheel

maria 2:09 PM 2 vociferando estavam

novembro 11, 2008

free auction madness

take my i.d.
my college degree
take my right to vote
my books my lighter
take my hair my clothes my guts
my nails my voice my
teeth take my mind
my eyes my hearing
take my thoughts my fingers
my rings my shoes
my bagpack my eyelashes
my arms don't forget my
fists my hands my
pencil my paper take
my stomach my lungs
my liver my socks
take my keys my phone
(all my gadgets) take my
dumb mouth my tongue
my throat take it all
for fifteen years in this bus stop
I have no name

maria 12:03 PM 2 vociferando estavam

novembro 02, 2008

unremarkable machine

Needles to say I have
seen solid bridges and archways (in photographs)
Needles to say I have been
everywhere but where I intended (in frantic thoughts)
Needles to say I have been wild
and lived on a tree (in a dream)
Needles to say my reality has been
a book (in a book)
Needles to say a piercing pun don't make
a true poem (am I earnest?)
Needles to say a hole in the wall
could provide a better view (outside I live)
Needles to say I have said more
than anyone should (my mouth tingles)
Needles to say the obvious is sometimes beautiful
sometimes not (whether it's framed or on a card)
Needles to say I have written pages that now
rest (in a drawer in your room, far from me)
Needles to say I have known for years
what I know now (I know nothing)
Needless to say I write now what needles
hinted over to me (someplace I've never traveled, gladly beyond)

maria 9:01 PM 3 vociferando estavam



ao rés da fala