It's a load,
It's all unforgotten unfinished dreams,
It's all the love that could be and want,
A lot of missing but doing the same stuff.

It's too much to bear,
It's all disappointments,
It's all the accomplishments that matters to anyone but you,
It's all the things you see and can't explain to anybody else,
It's all the experiences in your life you wanted to share but the moment's passed.

It's the struggle with time, actions and decisions,
It's all the worry about money,
It's everyone and just you,
It's the weight of knowing that it was you all along pushing yourself farther from everyone,
It's the deceiving lightness of being distant in a new city every 4 or5 years to blame geography and culture for being alone,
It's all of that and nothing apparently.
It's a lot of feelings, some this bad, others not so much (waiting for the right time to pop up).

And on top of that,
It still has blood to pump.

Breath,
Pulse,
Think,
Eat,
Drink,
Choice.

Everything else is luxury.

Take it, last or not,
feel the hot air inside,
Satiate.

Few times per minute,
All minutes in the interval
Between birth and death.

Breathe to words,
Breathe to colors,
Breathe to songs,
Breathe to forms.

We make art
Out of air.

Spread,
Infect,
Pulverize,
Migrate,
Pollinate,
Propagate,
Reverbe­rate,
Echo,
Transmit,
Amplify,
Expand,
Convince,
Multiply,
Prolif­erate,
Create,
Pass on,
Reproduce,
Tell,
Shout.

It's worth it.

Futures should be always distant,
Unthinkable, untouchable,
Something to be seen
As a turbid figure,
Refracted, reflected, deflected.

The approaching future
Is always a troubled one,
For excitement is not future,
It happens in the present.

To think of the future
Is always a form of fear,
Is denying the passage of time,
Is the control of uncontrollable.

The only place it could never be
Is in the present.

Freedom is to understand
What are the rules that imprison us
And use it to evolve,
Like the water of a river,
Restrained by gravity,
Keep going down
In order to grow
Inevitably to meet
A more tempered version of itself.

I wanted, truly, to believe
That this fire in the words and the eyes
Won't get our hands *****
Of clay, cement,
Of walls to face to,
That this same fire
Won't consume all the air we breathe,
Won't reduce to dust
All the ornament and all the content
That bonds us,
And all the remains
Are looks to the floor,
The first degree burns,
The second degree burns,
And those, more serious, but not painful,
Third degree burns.

I cannot believe
That this is a phony, fictitious,
Neither a harmless fire.
The awake of any sleeping volcano
Is more serious than those known, measured.

It is not the blow of the words
That make fire;
It is made in the stomach,
With all the acids ingested,
With poisoned food,
In the masochism of cultivating
Unnecessary pain,
In the sadism of wanting to see this pain
In any other eyes,
In the self denial as also a poison producer.

We are alone, naked, hands *****,
In cubicles, over a soft soil of the ashes,
Protected from everything,
Except ourselves.

... And the train never arrived.
There are tails and the station
And trains somewhere...
But not here.

Nobody came
And nobody went,
It's just me,
A lone loner,
Trying to blow clouds
With a straw.

There's just me here,
The town is dead
With everything inside.
It's no wonder no train comes.
There's just nothing here.

Anyone knows where to go?

I watch a man passing by
Doing nothing more with my time
Counting his steps,
Hearing the wooden-like sound of his shoes,
His walk was my walk,
My eyes followed him,
My mind slowly melted his.

With my body standing still
And my wandering mind,
I could exist in two places at a time,
I could see myself from far away,
While remained tied to the chair by the window.
I could open my safe of secrets,
Old rusted chambers
Where I long ago hid my shames,
My fears of exposure,
My incompleteness,
My anti-hero inherent in myself.

I saw the beauty and the ugliness inside,
I saw a oneself, myself, ambiguous,
Duplicated and conflicting,
Incoherent (but not less real),
I heard musics never written
For their lack of sense,
I found meaning within sands of logic,
I discover flaws and shouted them
Testifying my own matter.

But all from a distance,
In the walk of a stranger,
In the innocent look of shoes tapping the asphalt,
In the confused thoughts of a suddenly awaken child.
All of that can only be done
In a delusional state of being
For distance
Is our only weapon
Against ourselves.

I wish I was different
In a way I can't be sure
If I would still be me.

Then even colors would be different,
The path Earth follows
Would be slightly different,
The moon, either closer or farther,
But altered.

In essence,
Nothing would change:
Another person among billions,
Another ideas within an ocean,
Other undetectable interactions.

Still, incrementally different:
A different gravitational field,
Tenuous distortions in trajectories,
Touched by other winds,
Colliding with new molecules.
In thousands of years
The future would be so recognizable
I would say:
It all could only happen
For I wasn't me in the first place.

I changed so change could happen.

First there were farms
And we were worried
It would rain too much,
It would not rain at all.

Then came the cities,
Roads, cars, banks,
And we got worried
All life would drain
During a fatal robbery.

Then came the jobs,
And more jobs and
Lack of jobs, and
No matter what,
Money will be short.

And we worry now
Time is precious but
Viscous, uncontainable,
Irreversible, and to
Waste it is to die a little.

If everything is worrying
Why any of it is, actually?
Maybe its not a question
Of what is worrying, but
Of who is worried. Am I?

Men is evil by nature,
It is civilization which ruins him.

Obvious things are not stamped,
They are hidden beneath the carpets,
They are shout in between words
(But never represented by them),
Seemingly obvious things are misleading.

We're as strong as our hearts,
We beat as hard as it beats.

I'm more than been lost in a dream
That I no longer dream,
And my heart tells me so.

I'm fragile
For my ears are shut,
Numbed or whatever,
But I resist.
I'll move on, I'll swim
And I'll fly if I need to.
If I want to.

Want,
What a strange word.
I never know whose voice it is
When it is pronounced.

The myriad of colors
only expose a fraction of possible existences;
it's not about colors, but about divergence.

The inner world
extended to contain the whole universe,
living side by side
with frozen possibilities
that never came to exist
in order to expose a truth
that earned this title
only by the chance
and rigorousness of time.

Only experience convert
thought into truth.

Roll a stone up
roll and roll,
the mountain top
is still out of reach.

Roll a dice,
I know what it will be.
A six, and I'm out of reach.

Tell me your life,
hand me your fears,
I'll reveal your secrets,
and I'll lose interest.

Distance keeps me burning,
I live on the corners
looking for leftovers of lives,
looking for hidden spots,
unknown thoughts,
unspoken chances,
unseen shades of light.

I live today for a tomorrow
I cannot foresee.

There is a big "no"
Dividing, mutilating
The feelings of a fatherland,
Turning a home into
A sum of rooms.

There is a "no"
To the fundamentals of civility
Whenever it is said
Criminals must die,
Queers must be content,
Whenever racism is defended,
Although hidden into lamb's costumes,
Of the paladins of Order and Justice.

A country cannot be built
Under so many tearing premises,
We, more than ever,
Need to rescue
What it means
To be Brazilians,
To be Us, again,
Not the imbecile crusaders
Against a self nightmare
Of the enemies dreams.

Underlying all ruins,
All chaos and all lack of trust,
There, untouched,
Stands an indian-african-european child
That, without any comprehensible words,
Will present the chromatic yarns of our fabric
In which any shred
Dissolves everything.

For union, never unity.

At points
What pumps us
Imprisons.

The difference
Is abundance.

We strive for numbers
To seek productivity,
Followers, approval,
But most of the time,
They come unexpected.

To think in things we see
Is to see less;
Numbers are as distracting
As distant thoughts
In things we could reach
If whatever "ifs" happened.
Feelings must be whole,
Untamed,
For the sake of whatever we have
Rather than feelings.

Numbers are lack of confidence.

My words are my language,
My only, my own, mine and nobody else's.
We happen to have things in common,
Same name for colors, for beds and rooms,
I have my own past, present, future,
Perfect or not, continuous or not,
My time contains all verbal tenses.

We touch each others' lives,
We are nothing but leaks,
We need tons of ourselves
To give just grams to others,
But, again, small leaks,
And it's OK.

Uniqueness does not make me
One of a kind,
It just makes me
An other.

Hail to being one, being all,
and being none.

Round, around, surround,
Rounded, surroundings,
Tangent, tangled, tango,
Dance, dense, tense,
Intense, interior, international,
Nation, notation, notion,
Purpose, purple rose,
Thyme, lime, time,
Evolve, involve, revolve,
Round, around, surround.

Again, gain, grain.
Rain.
Revolve.
Start. Smart.

Pointless, less.
Point.

Make.
Your.
Point.
Revolve, recycle.
To the origin.
Begin.
Up.
To.
The.
End.
And.
Over.

Let the cannons come:
My flowers are awaiting.

I don't have an address,
I don't live in a street.

I don't live in a city,
I don't live in a country,
I don't live in a neighborhood,
I don't live in a house:
These are all concepts,
We can't live in a concept
(this is schizophrenia).

I live in a piece of land
Above a piece of land
Above a piece of land.
I live above the earth
And beneath the sky,
I live guarded of danger, cold and sunburst,
Also guarded of stars and moonlight.

There's nothing mine here
Except what I see, hear, touch, smell, taste
And what my mind does with it.

You are not free
For anything given to you.
Freedom is conquered
Through self violence,
Though greedy battles of this.
Freedom is earned for the voices spoken.
Freedom is screamed
Or it is just a fading breath.

Deny yourself
Deny the effortless routines,
Deny chance and deny steadyness.

Freedom is on the other side of truths.

Happiness does not flourishing
In the minimal spaces
Left between
The unsoiled feelings
Occupying our anxieties.

We find the fertile lands
Where we don't seek,
Where our thoughts diminish,
Where heartbeats are heard
In the intensity of the rush
Warning us
That any of our ideas
Are less than useless.

The more silent we are
The farther we can hear the wind.
I'm not really sure
What is the use of it,
But, in its own tongue,
It has much to be said,
Many places visited,
Many plagues delivered,
Many flowers pollinated.

Our absence of understanding
Does not mean absence of meaning.
It's just the language.

Down the road,
In between leafy trees,
There is a lone lamplight:
Sometimes steady, reliable,
Sometimes flickering randomly,
A mist of lighthouse
And faery fire.

Through its clearance extent,
The unseen horizon of its light,
Passes a man
After a woman.
Dark, light, dark.
Dark, light, dark.
And the sounds,
Untouched by the photons,
With accelerating rhythm,
Gives a sober dreary tone
To the undisclosed scene.

Not even the privileged highness
Of the witnessing lamplight
Could reach the sight of what happened.
Part of every eye
Are just not capable of see it;
Another part
Simply refuses
For the freeze of action
Would render all conscience useless.

The hidden darkness
Within every clarity
Contains more danger
Than all of them shades.

It's not the routine,
It's not the daily walks,
It's not the regular fatigue.

It's the desire to remain in bed
after remain in bed after remain in bed.
It's the constant thinking,
The ever close but untouchable past,
The consuming fear of being no more than a name,
The wish to be altruistic in an egocentric body,
It's the fight against the fight,
It's the latent pain that never hurts
But about to burst, smelling all vulnerability.

I'm tired.
Of being
Tired.

There can only be rhythm
Subject to a passing time.
Existence is against remaining,
Equilibrium is the cause of all death,
All resistance is change.

To stay when invited to leave,
To let live when shouts call merciless death,
To be space when asked only surface.

The thoughts of yore
Are no longer welcome
There is already too much past
Stick to the structures,
To the looks, the fears, the hierarchy,
The privileges and the possessions.

Steadiness itself
Is at a countdown to extinction,
The death of death
And the rise of immortality,
The new mindset
That will conquer galaxies and caves
Will emerge:
Always changing, always new,
Always self-discovery.

Everything else is vanity.

Anyway you call it
It's a label,
Virtual, invisible,
Post real,
Post truth,
Things are things
Not the name they have.

Change the names
Our minds change,
But it is inside:
the outside remains.

There is nothing more to words
Than senseless vibrations
We use to attach things.
We live delusional states
Where we think
Verbs, nouns, prepositions,
Trying to locate
Minds into grounds,
But we forget their nature,
That they're tools,
Deceiving, necessary tools,
Simplistic, manipulative tools,
Practical, addictive tools.

Lately I've been realizing
To be truthful
The only start
Is in the the anti words space,
The reverse map of reality:
All that is known, hidden,
And all that is mystery, shown.

Otherwise the only thing to do
Would be to hope
To find a new continent
On everyday commute.

Carbon,
Hydrogen,
Oxygen,
Nitrogen,
Small little other things.

Now and ever.

I keep moving
Not to understand
Why I'm going.

I keep moving
To be moving
To change landscapes.

To smell is not a choice,
But to select what is good
And what is not:
That is an option!

Every position
Is denying any others.
It is conquered
Through all that is learned,
Through intuition and grit,
And, that, is the only possible position
Oneself can be,
At those circumstances,
At that moment.

The result of billions of billions of billions
Of tiny particle forces,
Together in as much combinations,
To happen into only one solution.

Yet, time and time again
We divert that position,
That self constitution
Relative to the place of values
And beliefs and dreams and wishes,
Where we stand, bravely.
The distance between we and our ghosts,
The self imagined ghost,
Our own view from above
(untrue, but real),
This ambiguous gap
Eventually leads us farther,
Away from our core.
But be not mistaken,
We go. The ghosts stay.

The gap is only imaginary,
A concept, as any concept:
Ceases to exist the moment
It is brought to life.

The voice
Always talking,
That fears,
that shuts all other voices,
That voice that kills
Anger and contempt
(But still a wrathful
Even in it's sober tone),
That voice,
That numbing voice,
That fades all screaming,
That knows you're never enough,
That filters your desires,
Our worst desires,
Our desire to **** everyone,
To **** our parents,
To bring suffering to those who at moments we hate,
To just explode and cry and beat,
That voice that shuts this all up
(It's just a ******* reptile screaming):
Go to hell.

The skyscraper
Sees much from above,
Imposes, marks the landscape

He thinks he's big
But he'll never
See another city

Sleep, sleep
May you find
In dreams and mourns
Your awaken answers.

Sleep,
The rest is yours,
In other parts
The day is through,
People are running,
The sun out there,
But sleep in the calm
Of constellations.

Sleep,
Slow down
Hold your heartbeats,
The frequency of thoughts,
Don't miss your sleep,
Don't think of it,
Don't let it talk,
Breathe,
Breathe,
Gently breathe.

If you catch the train,
You'll go far and you'll go deep.
Sleep.

In the absence of a future
To guide my past,
I carry the moment in my shoulders,
With any baggage within.

Let it explode the pain,
Let earthquakes build shelters
No calms can destroy.
Let pain explodes
For what I don't see
Is stronger than every color;
What I deny and exclude
Conduct me more
Than what I accept and embrace;
All that explodes
Cannot be hidden anymore.

I expose open wide what makes me small
For I choose to be great.

From the clay
In between Araguaia and Tocantins
(The last, which I've bathed)
I was made.
But Guarapiranga, Billings, Tietê and Pinheiros
Settled me.

Here my story was tailored,
Here life showed the rush,
The vibrancy, the flourishing.
Life was made important by the second,
By intensity, by chances.

All we got left
Are our stories,
We are our main characters,
The storyteller,
The author, the god.

We tell, we do, we fight.
We hurt, we cry, we learn.

Yet, a beautiful story
Is meant to be
just an old story.

There are no snowy winters
Here in São Paulo.

You set my riot.
Time is not relative. It's just our choices.
Time is there,
It doesn't even notice us.

I don't like what we became.
I don't like to have done what I have done,
I don't like watch things from distance,
I don't like that your eyes cry my tears,
I don't like that my pain hurts you.

But there's no more to the world
Than the world.
Is this where we came,
I either deal
or keep rebelling. I'll fight.
Probably.

I've just let someone in,
And, now,
I just don't know what to do
With all the spaces left.

I've searched endlessly
Inside myself
Only to find
In you
What I needed
For my own company
To be enough.

The longer the roads
The more we have of ourselves.
Landscapes pass through
Without alarm,
Until we're awake.

Mountainside are a sculpted beauty,
The solid of geography,
But also a reminder
Of everything less than great.

Hurray to the sun,
The stars, the predictions,
And, consequently,
The way of life.

We're nothing less of our desires,
We're nothing more than our greed:
There lies our boundaries.

Doesn't matter what you think.

I've missed.
A mistake does not
Define me.

It's
Just
A
Mistake.

Sorry.

If I say nothing
Would it still be a poem?

The absence of words
Is the greatest triumph
Of a poet
With so much to say.

Where to dock
If lonely ports don't attract me
And crowd ports scare me?

Where can have so much life
That one can only be satiated of it,
Where is that curiosity,
Of so much healthy, bores me,
Where is that so many salty tears
Can fill my sweetness?

Why am I so afraid of life
Of all my crying is for having it too much?
All this health sicken me,
I sink my ship in the middle of the Atlantic
So, maybe, I'm reborn in Pacific.

I've lived intensely the middles:
I came from a mid-sized town
In the mid of Midwest,
Found myself in midtown of a big city,
In the middle of extreme and opposite opinions,
With an older and a younger brother,
Half way of where I judge myself capable,
Half lonely, half accompanied,
In the middle of people (never in their extremes);
Immensely in the median  disequilibrium.

"Us and them
And after all we're only ordinary men".
That said, what's left?
The two worlds, that one living in me,
And that other one, living in you,
How different could they be?

Everything to us, nothing to them,
I cannot be hurt, except
My skin are theirs,
And my pain as well.
I earn their money,
I wear their clothes.
I am a different person,
And, yet, depending on the distance,
Exactly the same.

Between us and them
There can be no we.
But we can be heroes,
Any day we want
(Maybe, for unknown reasons,
We just don't want to).
We fight for our rights
Whenever I can't.
We change by voting
Whenever I can't.
We are a country
Anywhere I'm not.
We are the world
Where I, alone, can never conceive it.

The world, by itself,
Is just a floating rock
Tempered with moving molecules
Unable to see farther than the eyes.

It takes courage
To leave home,
To return and see nothing's changed,
To realize things go on,
To see smiles where tears were expected.

It takes courage, and only courage,
To fly.
It's our fears, doubts and regrets
That anchor us to the ground,
Not the absence of wings.

It takes courage
To abolish mind constructions,
To listen to different musics,
To bring love after treated with hate.

It takes courage
To stand up against time,
Against things that went the wrong way,
To see that there was not a wrong way.

It still takes courage
Just to see the courage
In knowing our very own likes and dislikes,
Our whys, our whens and our whats.

I can always do better next time.
That's the curse of time:
The end is a never happening event.

There's no such thing
As a perpetual motion.

Feel
My
Changes.

The day ends
With another dose of order.
Million heads inside each one
Standing on bus stops,
On the way home to work to home to work
Missing the *****,
Missing the dancing,
The movement.

All enclosed
(Myself included)
Within imprisoning sounds,
Engine's music or music's engine,
Whatever works;
Feeling ***** through unacquainted eyes.

My voice shut
For I know the disease, the medicine,
But I know not the wellness;
I know rolling wheels
Riding over what I've been at some point in life.

I'm just missing a cross of eyes.

The only thing keeping us together
Is this friction,
That avoids slipping,
Avoids movement,
Despite of all generated heat,
All lost work,
It is, ultimately, micro physics
Of contact, of bonding,
It is a welding necessary for coherence.

Friction allows steadiness and displacement.
The difference is the direction and way of the force.