_-_Wheat_Field_with_Crows_(1890).jpg)
He keeps dying
in my dreams;
which is the part I accompanied
less
as I wasn't there at all
and more
as I was checking in almost daily.
One summer, we went on holidays
and discovered five new beaches.
Next summer, he wasn't anymore.
And now
he isn't visiting me in my dreams.
His death is.
Which I find comforting:
It confirms
that I hadn't skipped over
his presence.
The only closure I'm needing
is with his death.
So
he keeps dying
in my dreams.
O que foi?, perguntou.
Só faço merda, respondeu.
Ficou confuso: Não percebo nada do que dizes.
Ninguém gosta de mim, fez de conta de esclarecer.
És bué toina, concluiu.
Que horror...
Come, I said.
She didn't.
I had guessed so.
So I wonder
why I asked
if I knew.
It's not a wish, nor is it wishful thinking.
It's verification.
The purpose
is to confirm
that the world
still obeys laws of nature
and that one can predict
loneliness.
It's a relief.
Welcome, dear baby
It's your turn to live.
Awaiting for you
are
the green leaves
the 30% discount on a pack of hummus close to its expiry date
the waves carrying surfers and industrial foam
online memes of jumping cats
and so on.
Awaiting for you
is a world
of getting roasted trying to flee a wildfire
of drowning in flash floods that reach two meters in ten minutes
of news and fake news
of death and of birth
and so on.
Welcome, dear baby
It's your turn to live.
Awaiting for you are
anger
fear
love
passion
and so on.
Awaiting for you is
revolt
and so on.
Welcome dear baby
It's your turn to live.
We march down the avenue.
Chants and slogans and banners.
It was expected and surprising
for us to be so many.
A feeling of empowerment
surrounds me
but doesn't penetrate into me.
The next steps are the past steps.
The next steps are
drinks with comrades
dinner with friends
tomorrow is a workday
The next steps are
to take us where we just arrived
where we already are.
Maybe it's time to stop for a moment
to ask for directions.
He looks tired.
Sleepy.
Exhausted.
And tired as in sick and tired.
He doesn't look inspired,
excited,
not even curious,
as he tells me about their new action plan
that I am finding inspiring,
exciting,
and smart.
Suddenly I become aware
of how I talk about my own politics,
and how sleepy
exhausted
and sick and tired
I look
most of the times.
The sun is setting outside.
I leave the venue to catch some air
I look at the grayish-blue sky.
It's not dark yet, nor is it daytime anymore.
Turned to me
and asked
- How are you?
I checked the time
my time
and hers.
I checked myself
and double-checked.
We are in a supermarket, after all,
grocery shopping
She has bread in her basket,
I have fruit.
This is becoming awkward, I notice.
- Normal. How about you?
Last year, I read quite some poetry
classics, mostly
which I disliked deeply - up to major exceptions.
So I decided
to write poems myself
again
to regain self-sufficiency in my distaste.
This year,
you'll see quite some self-embarrassing stuff
as form and as content
coming up here.
No challenge, no goals, no excitement. No point.
Just
a
web
log
of
anguish.
