Sunday, November 25, 2012


Abysmally lonely she walks among many empty spaces, never call us, always observes.

With lethargic steps travels in the clear and vast humanity, she is not part of us, we belong to her.

Retracts and hesitates but does not change her ideas suspended flying back from time to time.

It handles very closely, without showing.

I taste its viscosity is inevitable to me, perennial, constant.

I drink it and as an addiction is spreading everywhere in different forms and it is irresistible to me, it is for everyone.

Such sordid alarm sound, slips through the roof, the parks, And everyday life out the streets.

Is placed in every solitary prayer, transient as litter in the huge pond, as withered as wailing wall.

Does not belong to the dark or bright, is a unique form not looking for anyone, No person finds her.

Her giant eyes are fixed, fired as an infinite crystal obelisk splitting the sky.

Her horizon never ends, also her emptiness, her intricate mode that comes perpetual in many wings shaped by millions of them, making it more discreet and dominical.

Is honestly lonely, unitary, sudden and soft.

I remain static as you, as a mold bronze saturated, like many breathless images, breathless from thousands of torrents of adrenaline, disturbed as killer blood.

I feel really cadaveric without reasons, fully submerged between capsized ships.

when we leave as deads without gravestones, creating the city undoing a solitary bust.

That frozen we turn to you.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Just Sitting

           A marked lack of interest, doubts as currents without channel opening space in the everyday poverty, the almost total ignorance and indulgence.

Maybe one day our general perception will be one or the most hardened enemy as unknown metal machine as warrior convinced of the work.

The reality that concern us invading and inviting the change.

The nakedness with which we are born and immediately we reject, dismissing a condition that belong to us.

Then where we go when we undertake the rampant break without stopping as changing planes and surfaces at different densities degenerating in time and space.

So where we are now?

To finally give in taking a deep sip and pause, realize that being out of ourselves as ancient souls who lost their decay material bodies right through the unmistakable ability of ignorance.

This satirical armor that we set to fall apart from everybody and everything, has become a profound meditation used from moment to moment, we assume it as a fancy dress.

So one day sitting somewhere you say goodbye to those modest benches amazed for all the marvels growing around as if you are already gone without movement, absent from every sound.

Time passes and our bodies as modest accommodations are the only protecting shield that supports us from a massive hit, we call life.

Severe widespread ignorance has become a modern disease is proscribed by the more particular one and acute attacks hard with blindness, and paralysis of the tongue and all the strings that are tied to it.

Precisely in the absence it stands as fencing dagger giving a perfect lunge.

Do not want a trophy; we are not behind a new knowledge to change the order of things, we are identified with all the trivial things.

So where we are now?

Here we are just sitting.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

A broken compass

A pirate alone in the sweltering sun on an island, a pirate isolated in his politics of fear, a pirate laden with gold and silver helplessly with it, one more disheveled than ever pirate.

One sober pirate with thousands of empty bottles at his feet, a soul of the sea coming ashore, a thief turned hero, a murderer merciless praying to God.

A Marine throwing away his badges, a hero lost into his mental war, a good citizen fallen into a swamp of evil beasts, master turned slave.
A sinking ship before sailing, a skull flag underneath a garish sun, an infernal plot approaching to the coast, a mob of animals chasing each other, sodomizing, abusing, getting drunk.

A broken compass at the bottom of the ocean, unknown a skeleton on the shore of the beach, dyed red sand, sharp stones by the dawn.

From executioner to captive from porting the hood to fall into a bottomless dungeon.

A lonely pirate hanged in the Execution Dock on the Thames and although many others are also hanged he seams to be alone, motionless than the others, dirty clothes washed in blood, rats at the foot of the wood pole that holds him, as people are looking.

Who’s the bastard in front?

A cold breeze passes accompanied by a smooth drizzle, salty breeze fully loaded of death, and wants to tell who was this stigmatized character that took the furious sea as his king, a boat set on fire as home and no one as his family.

Multiple times maimed, tattooed infinitely, sun and salt labeled, immune to hunger and addicted to alcohol, a face very tired, saltpeter, and scars.
A lonely pirate hanged rises  among many others into a forest of fright.

A pirate.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

City Echoes

So many inanimate figures makes me tired, are repeated very symmetrical too close in appearance discourages me, The Bossa Nova pitiful in the distance provides more density to the moment.

That voice sweet and heartbreaking, these tones sensual and sad sounds of São Paulo, born in those favelas that rise and drop like dead flowers, dead flowers.

This city of precise inequality, of this vast heterogeneous streets and expressways, absorbs me making me part of the visceral graffiti, of its untold stories of the others.

The city Vertigo distorts my steps I cannot straighten myself as the more aligned the streets are, I escape into the subway and break a vein of the great city as I run to the outside limits of this big heart of asphalt and cement.

In the distance I find a momentary lapse out this dark echo that controls me, I wash my face with cold water looking to clear my mind and my eyes in an effort of releasing as much information of glass and steel as I can.

Unequal periphery devoid of infrastructure, cemetery of eternal peace among many bullets and no food, plantation dead stuffed in heroin.

Poverty of spirit, frozen samba, scraping colors, smile full of tears, story of a gol shot the gates of hell.

I take my way back and immerse myself again into your gray veins, return my debate with fashion, cosmopolitan trends, this light rhetoric and the evil trapped.

I feel your bite starkly and deep; when we dance so close you carry over the death of love.

And I'm still in love with you, even off the ground and on my knees; I'm still in love with you.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Imaginary lives

Sitting again under the Brooklyn Bridge as I do from time to time, I observed a repeated image, a dejavu of death falling from the sky like a cloud of crows attending a macabre festival, as a lost idea.

And I no longer know how many of them have fall, between my spontaneous visits to the periphery of the river below this iconic mole, this radical connection that breaks the urban space through the boroughs, as they free fall as gliders without engine losing pressure in a vertiginous approach to water.

I can’t stop looking at the situation this time, this one in particular catches my attention more than the last, perplexity invades me, might be the suit I saw coming down, might be that although the distance I saw details of his face, might be that in this occasion and for the first time I stopped and try to analyze who could that person be.

Was this guy a successful man that had it all just few seconds ago and even this none of that represent a meaning in what was life, imaginary life full of luxuries and benefits, with a beautiful family and loving parents.

Or was this a transient spectrum, a homeless that could not carry on more misery, and with a confused mind could not kept coherent ideas and lost his way home.

Why he followed the path of the previous ones, as if it were a plan designed as a cult for gravity forces.

I see the Coast Guard approaching in an efficient and fast way, trying to preserve the body but it's too late, there was him rescued as a puppet resting in a dark corner of the theater, as a straw man in a burning cornfield.

As the lights of the boat are fading away, I turn my head up and watch the area.
And I wonder, why in such strange intervals they turn that way, challenging fear, are these evolved beings.

Who they are and where they go.

Friday, November 2, 2012

Smoke and mirrors curtain

Making decisions is always an interesting exercise, puts us in a position of personal reflection and self-evaluation, is to require explanations ourselves, is to confront and self-introspection.

To Take these same decisions becomes almost an impossible task, when we are in the middle of a smoke and mirrors curtain, in the center of a storm of social confusion, into the root of a buried tree.

When violence is focused as a solution to the differences in criteria, when there is no justice, when institutions do not work and life is based on the power of an individual.

The curtain gets bigger and blurry, its surface extends everywhere puts you against a wall repeated in fragments confusing your ability to understand what is happening around.

When you hear those voices that tell you not to do things right, that the effort is not worthy, that pursuing your ideas and express them is not an option.

When everyone escapes, when everyone goes to another place, when those who remain are lethargic and turn their backs to the sea, when those ones that stay don’t know where to go or who to talk with.

When a group walks segregated, when there is no collective construction, when we are not associated and as chaotic herds we are trying to advance.

Where is the line that separates, where the culture is, where are the approaches that seek for communion and balance between us.

Where all norms are based, what would be the direction to follow, how we determined the power of us.

It's hard when the curtain and all the confusion that brings is our creation, is a giant Frankenstein that escaped from our hands, an indomitable storm, a savage animal that is chasing us constantly making us captives.

We are slaves of our own ideas, absurd decisions; we are isolated on a distant island.

A surreal space.

A smoke and mirrors curtain.