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venerdì 31 ottobre 2014

Colcheias soltas

Ao L. A. de Lima, que sabe lesmar

encontrei um pente fino
branco, daqueles que vem com os remédios
de exterminar piolhos da cabeça.

eu que sou acéfalo
passo o pente nas escritas do mundo
já que entre os fios das literalidades
tem muitas lêndeas de analogia
ou patas de metáfora.

largo as sobras na beira do rio
em uma pedra cheia de musgos.

como dentro dos conceitos só há cadência,
ficam colcheias escorregando no limo
como Luis Augusto de Lima
escorregando em um saco de dormir
pela sua cozinha
untada de manteiga.

venerdì 24 ottobre 2014

Sobre catástrofes (e não holocaustos)

Me perguntaram sobre a Nakhba e a Shoah depois de ver o filme
sobre os limoeiros de Salma.
Na história dos vencedores, uma justifica a outra:
uma ---------- a outra.
A história é dos vencidos
é a de quem viu o assombro chegar sorrateiro:
o outro que devasta,
o outro que pisoteia e é
demasiadamente humano e
pisoteia e devasta não os judeus ou os palestinos.
Quem morreu na Shoah, quem morreu na Nakhba,
morreu por porra nenhuma.

lunedì 13 ottobre 2014

Truth-taking stare (David Wojahn)

... in which generally the patient has the sense of having lost contact with things, or of everything having undergone a subtle but all-encompassing change, reality revealed as never before, though eerie in some ineffable way.
—Louis Sass

Or gallery. Or strange askew museum. Or painting of a hotel bed
with some cheap print above the headboard. (Palm tree or a sleigh
pulling Xmas trees.) Or the day two-dimensional, subzero

as I run the beach along the frozen lake. The waves
lathed to Hokusai spirals. Cold gallery, every inch
of wall space covered, park benches derbied by snow.

House designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. House for battered women.
House of the servants of His Godhead Reverend Moon
Who plots in some Seoul penthouse His glorious

death and resurrection. Ten minutes ago I left you
to the laying on of hands. Maria talking fast in glottal
Polish, and the physical therapist, hugely blonde,

lifting your legs, white cocoons of the casts. First up,
then to the sides, the hospital bed in the living room
hulking, whirring as it moves along with you.

To talk of this and you directly, though I can’t.
To heal you with my own hands though I can’t.
Legs not working, hands not working, tongue encased in plaster.

The tongue going numb with the hands. Why my friend Dave
loves jazz: to hammer and obliterate the words,
nullify too the wordlessness. “Blue Train” on my Walkman

as the Moonies leave from house to van, lugging crates
of silken flowers. Blue pills that didn’t work.
Then my month of yellow pills. To not metamorphose

to my father writhing as the charges surge
from temples down the spine, a dog’s twitching legs
in sleep. To mollify with acronyms: ECT, Odysseuses

and Tristans of PDR, yellow Prozac, sky blue Zoloft.
To heal you with my own hands though I can’t.
The day two-dimensional. (Past and present and to dwell

in neither.) Truth-taking stare. Height and width,
no depth. On a screen the paramedics ease you
from car to ambulance, having labored with a crowbar

at the door, and I push again through the crowd
on Thorndale. This is my husband. Please
let him come with me. The inside of the ambulance,

overlit. Not a scream, the mute button pushed.
Generally the patient has the sense ... To watch
the memories shuffle on a screen. To Portugal ten years ago.

Our Lady of The Wordless Stare. The Bishop of Leiria
in sepia on the gallery wall, his hand that waves
a sealed envelope. Caption: “The Famous Third Secret of Fatima.”

The visitor’s center, thronging with white habits.
The road to the Basilica flanked by tourist booth, a wax museum.
Faces of two nuns who point to every photo, who’ve fled Cambodia,

one who speaks some English, and the beautiful younger one
whose tongue was “excised” by the Khymer Rouge—
on pilgrimage, thanksgiving for deliverance.

Their charter bus from Nice is parked outside,
pneumatic door and motor humming. Our Lady of the Wordless
stares at me. She stares .... And I’m shaken out of it

by helicopter stammer, drowning Coltrane,
all sixteenth notes as the Moonies reach the left of the frame.
Dissolve, myself, from the right of the frame. Synesthetic

whir of chopper blades, six hundred feet above the lake.
Then the picture empty. And the lake with wind anointed.
And the lake with wind. And the emptiness, anointed.
David Wojahn, “Truth-Taking Stare” from The Falling Hour. Copyright © 1997. All rights are controlled by the University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, PA 15260. Used by permission of the University of Pittsburgh Press.

Source: The Falling Hour (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1997)

mercoledì 1 ottobre 2014


Existe aquela violência de um cabresto que te empurra pro curral.
A voz de um homofóbico,
as caras de um daqueles que se acostumaram tanto
às suas dobras
que querem dobrar com elas o universo.

Eu queria excrementá-las todas.
Ser um grande início de tubo digestivo
e pairar
e erguer tótens de cus pelas colinas.
Porém me retenho.
Deve ser que a liberdade esbarra na igualdade.
Deve ser que eu não posso criar outra espécie:
a que só se incrementa excrementando.

Mas algum dia, que cagada,
eu desagravo.