I AM MY NIGHTMARE MIRROR

   Today a new kind of lily bloomed.    The little bud I left this morning with a kiss    Is now a beautiful flower    Unlike everything around it.    Unlike all the hot colors Summer brought along,    And the yellow dirt and the yellow Sun;    Also different from the blue sky around the world.    It's purple. Better yet, lilac. The color I hold dearest to my heart.    I wonder what freakish accident of nature gave birth to such abnormality.    Wonder if the disease will spread,    If a new color is still to show, and then another,    And then another    And this way incessantly until I'm not there anymore to blow a breath of existence to their reality.    Orange, lilac, brown.    The beautiful garden of a poor man...    — Not even mine —    An unknown existence with a good taste for cheap flowers.   *** bald lady at the window this time I am the one to catch the other staring she waves I wave back   ***    “Papa hits mama from time to time. Yesterday he gave her a black eye ri

    Waiting room.     Clearly bored, sighing my way to salvation    Not feeling like doing anything, I hold my notebook like the neck holds the head    A blank page never seemed so useless    A pencil never felt so uncomfortable between my fingers    And my trusty old copy of The Antichrist is not calling for a rehearsal     What’s worse even, is the lack of other people here    No one’s in sight for me to bother, no face is in these weird scientific magazines and the attendant left for a 5 that feels like forever    Don’t feel like doing anything. The sand is not slipping through my fingers    So I give in, for once, to my fatigue, and instantly fall asleep.      When my eyes open, there’s a new element to the eerie empty room    A girl reading my notebook    A girl like made of chocolate    A girl    A girl with curly beautiful hair like made of gold    A girl    A girl that looked at me with the smile of someone who doesn’t care much about the futile parts of a smile,    A girl that

   993    an offer of sanctity    martyrs the brothers    martyr the earth   *** sat at the backseat of the uber, tuning the bass what a funny-looking man checking me out from the other car traffic is jammed, rush hour, let’s make a new friend I nod, he nods back. two fingers up, rock on he starts rocking with an air guitar I follow him up with the bass, and we enjoy that couple minutes of pretend live performance not a single word in exchange oovoo javer looks at me strangely on the rear view mirror funny man signals to hand over the guitar I do, and watch him have fun playing an off rhythm mess fucking up the strings I just tuned but who cares, rock on, and we jam to his bass solo then he hands it back to me, and I play my bass solo and we go back and forth in this insane duel until, totally out of juice, we both just sit down to take a breather then I notice that we’re close to actually getting out of the jam first him, than me we wave our goodbyes in silence and there in the distan

—a sneak peek of the next book. coming early Mars   in all flowerbeds gnawed leaves live as veterans sordid invalids   *** snob pieces of shit playing lunar songs, drinking off-key piano   *** owls hiding in holes no worm in sight all weekend like real people *** smiling Diana knowing death is approaching like Luna that night   *** a stray coffee shop in the middle of nowhere extant vibration   *** cute doggo-doggies covered in scabs, dirty dogs unending delight   *** urban-life pyrates cheerfully mocking others along with the sea   *** trick or treat, lady? oh, sweetie, here you have it poor people candy   *** no showing your tits to them punks with no future understand? capeesh?   *** an eerie school day quiet kid got arrested for touching private parts   *** blablablabla—moon blablablabla—werewolves blablablabla—night   *** Miss Orndoff was cool but hated the living shit out of M. Warnock   *** fucking dick fell off jesus man what's the holdup? he just ran away   *** and when I

   Calliope has changed.    Not as young anymore, not as beautiful.    Her altruist efforts gave her maturity and wisdom but,    In exchange, put too heavy a weight on her shoulders.    Permanent eye bags, a crooked spine,    Skin so pale and unhealthy that now, truly,    She has become a ghost.    Not an ethereal damsel,    Youthful and super Brasil, like the one I was so fond of just a few years ago;    But more than that, an overly exaggerated amount that went so far a way, lost the means of its true nature.      I don’t think I can love her ever again.    Not even shed a little light, like when she lured me before —    But just for a little bit —    When we were both too young and reckless to understand anything.    She a little less than me.    A time, I feel like, of much disturbance;    Much love too, passionate love;    Adultery — a simple modus of — in simple — childish — relationships.    Red, white, a surprisingly shiny bronze orange: polished everyday.    A Dead God to crun

   New notebook, new form (?), new me (??) (what?)    New brand, a dollar more expensive; soft, plum-like cloud-like heavenly coat of new everywhere    Little money spent on everything but the quality of the pages, though    This bookmarker ‘bout to make me kill myself, I swear    After a couple rains, a couple falls in muddy puddles, though, I wonder    Wonder how this symbol of symbiotic existence will be after staying with me for a couple months.   *** new book release today library completely booked no fun   ***    Paint the picture: Sweet old man publishes a book at his favorite local library.    Invite all his childhood friends to come,    his family, a huge bunch arrives. Their roles in varying degrees but,    nonetheless, all below him,    standing his ground as a benevolent father to all.    Blessings given away to the young and the old.    All requested, none for free;    shows his skills at the typewriter.    Sweet old man bad-mouths the city paper, with class.    Hatred and

  Took a cheap UberX downtown. Christian-Bale-looking driver, spent the entire trip mumbling something to himself, to the rhythm of the radio’s commercials, like a drinking game he played alone, that is, without everything that makes a drinking game actually fun. Didn’t spare me a single moment of attention, too. Always combing his shiny hair back, sometimes jamming off beat to the song playing, whispering the lyrics, grunting when he got it wrong. Slapping the stick and the wheel in distress, after a while.    At the end of the trip I asked if he had change for a 20 — 15 what I had to pay — and he turns to me in the most kind and warm tone, says of course, and takes a perfect 5 out of the wallet — like fresh out of the bank — before wishing me good luck and a good day, with a big white smile of perfect teeth. ***    Why is my heart fished always by the same kind of girl? Brunette, shoulder-length hair, pale white skin. But at the same time, you see, there are so many of them and, trus

    A new day,    A new day,    Because something happened as I slept through.      As my eyes opened, the white light didn’t come from your wings.    Your presence wasn’t felt,    Your face wasn’t kissed.      As my eyes opened I couldn’t question anymore.    Everything was just certain.    Getting up wasn’t right.      So I kept my eyes opened    And cried until there were no more tears,    For your hands weren’t there to comfort me.      Today I regret my enmity towards photographs.    Today I betrayed my eternal vow towards you.    Today I forgot your face.      I've realized, finally, that I cannot remember everything.    I've realized, finally, that even you would one day vanish.    I've realized, finally, that at this point I’m better off dead.      Could I even say I love you more than anything, now?    Are you even real anymore?    How come you left me alone again?      You know what I noticed today?    The bedroom roof is beige;    Color-harbinger, the cool of a d

[PT/ENG]      Pequeno café no meio do nada. Firme e forte há mais de trinta anos. Para a direita uma borracharia, para a esquerda um enorme prédio de apartamentos. Mesmos clientes todos os dias, mesmo café todos os dias; e são eles apenas um punhado de gente, uma família de amigos, digamos.    Cara nova no pedaço, ousa se mostrar abrindo a porta. Todos os olhos se viram para ela. Silêncio mortal. Vai até uma mesa no canto toda coberta por uma fina camada de poeira, e limpa um pouco com um handkerchief que tirara do bolso, tão somente o suficiente para que pudesse se sentar e esperar, esperar para ser servida, estando plenamente ciente do inerte estado de surpresa em que todos estavam.    "Em que posso te servir, mademoiselle?" pergunta a senhora francesa, barista, mas servindo também a até então desnecessária função de garçonete.    "Gostaria de uma xícara de café, s'il vous plaît. Preto, sem açúcar," respondeu a visitante, e lá foi a outra preparar o pedido.  

old friends everywhere, waves, nods, ‘mornings to sit down at the empty café and hear the latest gossip or even feel the sweat pooling on my back for I still insist in wearing these heavy clothes even mid-summer this time sat on one of my benches, in one of my parks looking at all the city pricks passing by at all the traffic outside the gate at all the gray in this world wild concrete world, house to all that’s modern, to all that’s me even me not being all that modern a den made to fit me like a buff man’s pinky ring and also all of my friends, mineral, vegetal, animal like that big rock you find driving out of town for a bit or the pothead homeless that knows my name, rocking a 100$ bong or even, and would you look at that, the handful of people with an active role in my life chatters, lovers, friends and foes the kids, the teens, the adults, the olds a cheer from the poor homeless at the shelter a group hug from the children at the orphanage a couple handshakes and smiles at the nu

[PT/ENG]      “Corpo amarelinho, cheio de manchinha... Eita! Olha esses pêlos, essas orelhas felpudas! Quatro patas, um rabo, mas que bicho é esse? Deixa dar um cheiro...” E ela deu um cheiro no netinho no seu colo, que gargalhava e roncava com a brincadeira da vó, vestido numa fantasia de onça. “Júnior? É você!?” ***    O tempo passou e a casinha da esquina permaneceu a mesma, mas mal-mal se deu a primavera e já cresceu toda uma cerca de arbustos em volta, mais verdes que a esperança — e de seus galhos brotaram, às centenas, florzinhas amarelas como o sol a brilhar sobre elas. ***    — Ei, menino, vem cá — chamou a menininha, seis anos muito, a um garoto da mesma idade.    Ele vem atender, caminhãozinho na mão, cheio de areia: — Que foi?    — Quer brincar? — Ela pergunta e ele tira um segundo pra pensar. Olha o caminhão de plástico, a caixa de areia, de volta para a menina no balanço. Acontece que eles brincavam juntos desde que cheguei, mas um desentendimento fez ela ir chorar, embur

es-tre-las bri-lham no céu da noi-te ne-gra va-zi-o, não, o-co e-ter-no      “Pronto, sua vez,” ela diz com um sorriso no rosto.    Penso um instante, a ideia surge:   ru-a es-cu-ra luz pe-la cor-ti-na do só quar-to va-go      “O que será que estão aprontando naquele quarto? Já está tão tarde,” indaga Priscilla, nós dois olhando pela janela para o prédio da frente.    Respondo   as-sas-si-no nu cor-ta a mo-ça em pe- da-ços mo-lha-dos      Rimos, ela olha para mim em tom de desafio e diz, ins-tin-to as-sas- si-no, mei-a-noi-te, o- lhan-do ví-ti-ma      Sombrancelha arqueada, aceito e rebato, in-cons-ci-en-te pre-sa ri, i-no-cen-te do seu ver-me-lho      E responde, ban-que-te san-gren- to, mor-ci-lha de gen-te- por-co. de-lí-cia!      “Bom, acho que a graça já passou,” digo.    “Também acho, mas ainda estou curiosa a respeito daquele quarto. Não estava vago?” pergunta.    “O porteiro ainda hoje disse que me mudasse logo para lá. Acho que ninguém reclamou o quarto não.”    “Hum, que estr