O segredo

Sentia um desejo incontrolável de expandir-se como cantos,
Romper o limite que cortejava o acordar.
Queria despir-se das algemas que guardavam as mãos, a sinceridade.

Apadrinhou a loucura em seu nascimento para que a passagem fosse breve,
E logo se pôs a modificar as canções que morriam no pulso do peito.
Era o sabor inquieto que calava as paixões que habitam no caminho das veias, na tortura da pele, no viés das idéias.

Dizia serem como asas as manhãs, a voar com a força de rapinas à procura de alimento, a voar com a fragilidade de borboletas ao alçar primeiro vôo.
Dizia serem como anjos os olhos teus a fitar a lua com a expectativa de uma criança.

E se via o fogo, o calor, o avesso, a memória desperta.
O segredo compactua o galope do tempo, o gosto do vento,
O verbo é a configuração do pensamento.

spasm

Things to write about, thoughts absorbed, hands in spasm;

The dream was uninteresting and I’d rather stay awake.

Couldn’t ask delight of better days,

It was enough the wind in my back.

The sun across the moon, the little pauses.

Right now I live; I watch the sun burst, the moon yellow.

Listen to the sound of your lungs,

The air rushing in and out,

Hands silvering the grass green in our shoulders.

Everything else was still, absorbed, written in spasm.

recognition

My head had woken up jumping five thousand feet at each step given. I was walking a mile right there in my thoughts. I had just woken from the sleep of a million years.

The eyes were black and white. Hands numb, for time had passed and my feet were still cold. Cold feet and all, I was there. Shut, quiet. I’m staring at their faces, measuring the feel of your skin. Right now I can’t complain. I can’t pretend the moonlight is of any importance. Listen to the flow... It is pretty much like singing. C’mon, the moves are monochromatic. You might tell me colors matter, well, to whom - I shall ask. You might tell me time and days are essential. I couldn’t tell. My days had only the purpose of living. I’m in love.

I’m in love with my work, I’m a workaholic. I’m in love with the absence of that freaking pressure. I’m in love with the seconds that lead to the next seconds. I’m in love with my French; I’m in love with my lousy Italian. I’m in love with my books. I’m in love with my poorly played piano, I’m in love with my harmonica, I’m in love with my voice. I’m especially in love with my voice. I don’t care if the world agrees, I love it, and so be it.

Nobody makes me search for rocks in the sea anymore. I’m free. I’m free of the crawling fears that creep up your dreams. My dreams no longer hold their breath when people stare. Fuck the rest, my dreams are coming, they are coming out of the dream platform into reality. They are out here.

The walls were black and white and all I could see were your eyes. My hands are quiet, but they are alive. My hands are cold as hell, deep under water. Man, this fire is breathing here, and I don’t care if it is cold. Shut the door, be quiet. I’m staring at their faces, and I like the sound of recognition. Thank God for all this work.