I went to the praça à noite:
It's spring in the southern hemisphere,
the temperature is perfect for
shorts, a tank top, and Havaianas, or
the short black shiny fur of
Georgia, the dog.
She is fascinated by everything --
a true deficit of attention
which makes her so cute
you want to watch her do her thing
forever.
So I watch her
and scoop all natural ice cream
into my mouth with a little wooden spoon-thing
and watch the kids running around
in the background where they play games
and yell all sorts of things
like the rules of their game;
where to run to and where to hide,
smashing little snap things on the ground
or tossing them at each other,
enjoying the very temporary satisfaction
of these toy explosives.
I watch the poetry,
the real life poetry
of beings in space-time
sending out waves to friends
they did not expect to see,
hugs transmit heartbeats,
conversations travel far enough
to eavesdrop,
kisses in the corner, under trees,
near the bike rack in the shade
and shadows slide faithfully
beside everyone.
Old men of terceira idade
haven't changed their wardrobe
since their twenties.
Suave slow sauntering fedora-capped
open button up short sleeves cream color
like the loose pants striding long
toward their bicycles which they ride
all the way back to their sitio
which lay along a dirt road
some 10, 20, or 30 kilometers away.
Their bikes are from the dictatorship
iron, one gear. They carry their women
and children on them into and out of the city center.
Their sitios tucked in the sierra
alive with stars gliding slowly
like amoebas reincarnated as the most
beautiful, peaceful lifeforms,
alien evenings. Indeed, these old men
hope their roads never get paved
but "the way things are going",
they say to each other over coffee or cachaça,
"the way things are going, who knows?"
Kids need new clothes
otherwise they'll be laughed at
and "legal" won't make sense anymore
and so won't be marketable
and then it'll all be communism
or socialism and losers eating leaves
and fruit and nuts and hormone free beef
in a glorious virgin tuft on mother Earth's
most fecund region
and they will be her immaculate conception.
I know. I speak of silly, unrealistic dreams.
Maybe I speak like a man
who sees nothing more than poetry;
who wants nothing more than peace,
but has to fight for it
heart and mind.
But hey, I write these very words
on a cell phone.
I wear Old Navy shorts and Havaianas
and Arizona tank top.
I wear a cool Antartica Guarana baseball cap
I found at my dad's sitio.
So much time did it spend in the sun,
it has faded to a handsomely aged teal
and the inside was so nasty
with sweat stains and disintergrating sponge
and mold and, no doubt, invisible critters
on cobwebs, I washed it twice before
putting it on my head.
I wear a polar heart monitor watch
and contact lenses without which
I would not enjoy the fine view of which
I now write -- my vision is that poor.
But of what we can be (not what we ought to be);
of what of us we shall take
in the arc of our children's
relation-ships with each other,
with life --
of these things, it is our duty
to speak of, often.
It's spring in the southern hemisphere,
the temperature is perfect for
shorts, a tank top, and Havaianas, or
the short black shiny fur of
Georgia, the dog.
She is fascinated by everything --
a true deficit of attention
which makes her so cute
you want to watch her do her thing
forever.
So I watch her
and scoop all natural ice cream
into my mouth with a little wooden spoon-thing
and watch the kids running around
in the background where they play games
and yell all sorts of things
like the rules of their game;
where to run to and where to hide,
smashing little snap things on the ground
or tossing them at each other,
enjoying the very temporary satisfaction
of these toy explosives.
I watch the poetry,
the real life poetry
of beings in space-time
sending out waves to friends
they did not expect to see,
hugs transmit heartbeats,
conversations travel far enough
to eavesdrop,
kisses in the corner, under trees,
near the bike rack in the shade
and shadows slide faithfully
beside everyone.
Old men of terceira idade
haven't changed their wardrobe
since their twenties.
Suave slow sauntering fedora-capped
open button up short sleeves cream color
like the loose pants striding long
toward their bicycles which they ride
all the way back to their sitio
which lay along a dirt road
some 10, 20, or 30 kilometers away.
Their bikes are from the dictatorship
iron, one gear. They carry their women
and children on them into and out of the city center.
Their sitios tucked in the sierra
alive with stars gliding slowly
like amoebas reincarnated as the most
beautiful, peaceful lifeforms,
alien evenings. Indeed, these old men
hope their roads never get paved
but "the way things are going",
they say to each other over coffee or cachaça,
"the way things are going, who knows?"
Kids need new clothes
otherwise they'll be laughed at
and "legal" won't make sense anymore
and so won't be marketable
and then it'll all be communism
or socialism and losers eating leaves
and fruit and nuts and hormone free beef
in a glorious virgin tuft on mother Earth's
most fecund region
and they will be her immaculate conception.
I know. I speak of silly, unrealistic dreams.
Maybe I speak like a man
who sees nothing more than poetry;
who wants nothing more than peace,
but has to fight for it
heart and mind.
But hey, I write these very words
on a cell phone.
I wear Old Navy shorts and Havaianas
and Arizona tank top.
I wear a cool Antartica Guarana baseball cap
I found at my dad's sitio.
So much time did it spend in the sun,
it has faded to a handsomely aged teal
and the inside was so nasty
with sweat stains and disintergrating sponge
and mold and, no doubt, invisible critters
on cobwebs, I washed it twice before
putting it on my head.
I wear a polar heart monitor watch
and contact lenses without which
I would not enjoy the fine view of which
I now write -- my vision is that poor.
But of what we can be (not what we ought to be);
of what of us we shall take
in the arc of our children's
relation-ships with each other,
with life --
of these things, it is our duty
to speak of, often.
