Light

Light wasn't invented
to shine on the street at night

or to make children
feel safe in the dark.

Light wasn't made
for reading books
or for television sets.

Light was made
to beam out of your eyes

when you laugh

when you're happy

when you're in love.

Light was made
to enchant.

Normal

Death, war, hunger:
normal.

You don't like it.
You feel badly about it:
normal.

No one's gonna apologize
to you for it:
normal.

You think it's really crazy
and super f*cked up?:
normal.

There are some strange mofos out there,
talking to themselves
on street corners
screaming to Zeus
and old, dead gods,
their frustrations,
searching for their minds:
normal.

Crime on the streets.
Crime in politics.
Injustice against which you
dream up a better world
you struggle to get yourself
to actualize in your day to day,

innocent people dying,
guilty people fleeing,
and no one knows who is who
anymore and no one
really cares, either:

normal.

You think you're crazy:
normal.

You're hopeless today
hopeful the next:

normal.

You say,
"There is no normal.
Normal is a myth.":

Normal.

Carry on.

I went to the praça, à noite

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.

Spirit and Wilderness

No matter how wild or wicked the wilderness

your virgin eyes will find when your spirit

finally awakens,

know this:

It is your wilderness.  It grew whist you slept

and dreamed the dreams of a man

who thought that all he was was mortal flesh

cast here, perhaps, to defend or prove himself

among his likenesses of form.

That wild is you.  If unkempt, twas you who rendered it this

and twas you who thought, somewhere within, 

as you sensed that for which you had no proof,

as if realizing you had a blind spot in your vision,

in your perception,

that if and when your spirit should also blossom and find feet

to carry it throughout, 

it would be the wildest Life of them all,

infinity, minus fear.

shadow sculptures and other people

Shadow sculpture is especially beautiful because when you look at the physical sculpture, you do not see the order in it, you do not see the pattern, and therefore it appears to lack that standard beauty of proportion the human eyes seems to prefer. But when you cast a light from the right angle, the proportion and harmony of the sculpture becomes visible. I like this because it seems a clever metaphor for other people: sometimes we meet people who are so different, they don't seem to make any sense at all. They appear to be a mess and we therefore do not credit them as possessing a beauty of character that our own culture, our own way, our own upbringing has taught us to recognize. However, when we look from the right angle, maybe we see it. When we shine our own light upon the mess we perceive, maybe then we see that beauty, the universal intangible shadow that inspires our adoration, our affection -- Love.

today i shederized a tear

Melancholy does my heart

achey-ache observerin

mundial affairs as are.

Status, statisticus,

etcetera, ad infinitum

through death and

yummy-money stink

and good Chinese, Angolan,

Mexican – immigrants and native

to their own soils – slaves

of contemporaneity, my fellows.

Today I shederized a tear

or two, alone here in my

musicless interval of

thoughts, all of which was

full of heart and truth

like fetuses of my affair

with goddess Psyhe herself

which, for my health of mind,

were aborted before they could

a come on out screamerin

and distorterin my precious

world-view and pacificitificationdom.

I'm the only thing that matters, anymore.

Smarts is only good for getting

today cause smarts alone

with no business acumen

is that mortal recipe for

special sauce crack-cocaine;

methamphetomine; crystal-crumbed

super grass; purely man-made tasty-ass poisons;

hard, cheap corner store spirits

to numb me antennae,

falsify my delisions.

Validate yours, Gingerbread man.

Turn them into a lie

like you insisted they is.

Smarts from the books and ideas

without balls or a deep throat

so the world can f+ck the troof

into you immaculately

so that nastiness you hate

ain't nastier than you

and you is just humble

and workerin hard as the dumb

cog-man, cromagazine sex-changed

womenish miracles a science –

amazerin, distracten beautery –

drunk-drivinerin wives

gone mad at the maid

and life altogether:

Equality is killerinus.

You are killerin me.

My goodness, education tenderizes

when it should coat

cloak rape break

and gently casket

your goodness

put it on a shitty little

boatsy to Heaven

so a wave can smash it

to watery death

out beyond our innocent view

and not even your

prayers make it there,

you fool and

quit learnerin crap

start deceiverin. Deliver your freedom

to D'allah, in whom we trust,

and sweat for his green cape

to knight your worthless ass

and give you shelter

through these miserable,

sad, nasty sluts we've all becomified.

Ever feelerish as if?

Driverin from here to there

everyday and just now I seen

the billboard. It read,

“Welcome to the Animal Kingdom, Maaaaan!”

Lucky bastard was surrounderized

by ladies, beer, drugs.

Not a worry in sight

smiling from ear to ear.

Benchmark

Your benchmark days
are hidden in ordinariness.
Not everyone knows
when you learn
to ride the wave
enough lengths
to be a Man,
a Citizen, a Professional,
a Genius, or whatever.

But your own sight changes
and you marvel.

The world is what you make of it.