I AM MY NIGHTMARE MIRROR

  [ENG/PT]    Taking pictures of people at the bus stop, this girl on the other side of the street notices and smiles in my direction; waves, calls my attention, gestures a photo-snapping, wants a picture, I take the picture. Now comes the philosophy of the situation.    If I never truly wanted to take that picture, why did I do it, and what should I make of it? Why make a big deal out of it, also?, why should it ever matter? Maybe because the idea of deleting it came to mind. You see, I thought to cause an effect like Schrödinger's cat, of an existence/non-existence of this picture and the possible supposed uncertainty in the head of that girl before, during and after that moment.    On the other hand, what would make someone want and ask for their picture to be taken by a stranger? What would this person want me to do with it? Does she expect me to just accept it? As a gift? A gift of her image to me? Does she only like pictures and wished to be included in a supposed project? In

[ENG/PT]     Black and white kitty cat    Closed eyes, little loaf    Couldn’t stand the chilling strike of nights or endure the odorless hunger of days    Died in his sleep    Closed eyes, little loaf    Black and white kitty cat   rotting stench of death buzzing necrophages feast noiseful silence of the woods cyclical inexorable fate   *** The barbed wire they put up after the cameras captured us jumping over the wall to steal seemingly nothing is still as loose as we left it to jump over the wall again and steal gardenias   ***    Arrived before the ants    gave him a proper christian burial    Baby bird inside a tupperware coffin    god’s child, friend of the family    The brave little Otto Braun   ***     “want to hear all that and not feel anything; I want you to profess your love for me, give me all there is inside your heart, and feel nothing, and say nothing back to you. I want to hit the wall of my heart's crust, scratch until my nails bleed, and still tell you I can'

     It’s a warm night, late night. Half-empty bottle of chardonnay, two mugs, a blanket. There’s a plastic table and the metal skeleton of a parasol; two plastic chairs are bolted to the ground, at a cheap-looking rooftop, adorned by dead plants. We’re not sitting on the chairs, but at the edge of the roof, watching the movement down there at the empty street, devoid of life.    It’s one of those nights. I don’t know why I’m here, just am; the wine doesn’t give resolution. Wishing my head was full of thoughts I sip again from the mug, think about this situation, think about my situation. Where’s the poetry in all of this? Drowsy life in shades of gray can’t become art.     “Maudite soit la nuit aux plaisirs éphémeres où mon ventre a conçu mon expiation,” she says, then sips from the mug too. Down there is a hooker, beside her is a drunk man. They get in the car and vanish, the only car in that street where parking is prohibited. “E lle-même prépare au fond de la Géhenne les bûchers co

[ENG/PT] I love to drink chamomile tea and watch all those little tubby things swimming around inside the cup It’s a cocktail of bacteria   *** JOVENS     —Rapaz, lá me ofereceram chá no copinho de requeijão.     —É mesmo? No copinho de requeijão?     —No copinho de requeijão...   ***    There were five gunshots    PAH! PAH! PAH!    PAH! A pause. PAH!    Ten minutes later    The sound of an ambulance   ***    Laying on dead grass, evening rolls out,    I discover the true nature of street lights    As fairies of white hot stars, molten by their cores   *** Blood-shot eyes, reeking of cheap alcohol Grinding teeth and foaming like a mad dog Why are you clenching your fists at me, asshole? Are you not afraid to die?   ***    Today a mad man looked me in the eyes and shouted:     “LATINA!” and I smiled, happy    After so much confusion about my race I have found out, in frenetic eyes, what I really am:    LATINA!   *** I heard unmistakable howls of pain The grunting of a drunk man The sile