The mismatches
Make us.
The dissonant jazz chords
Are more powerful
Than majors.

The has to be
Something of misunderstood,
Of somewhat unexplained,
Or a reluctant mystery
That whenever something is
Discovered, a new unpredicted face
Of it is revealed.

Raise to the empty,
Nothing would fit anywhere
If wasn't for it.

We are sealed by our bodies,
But we can only stretch
To reach what's outside.

Don't turn right.
The only option
Is to go ahead,
Or ticket awaits you.

Obey the red light,
Your life depends on it,
Kids need their parents
And parents need their kids.
Rules save lifes.

Wrong way.
You can only go
The other way around,
It's all for good traffic,
So we can arrive early,
So hours aren't wasted,
We want you to have
10 more minutes with your family.

Parking forbidden,
Keep moving,
Moving,
Rolling,
Don't stop,
Faster, but watch the
Speed limit.

It's all very clear, you'll get used to.
Everything is there
For a reason.
More signs, better traffic,
Better people,
Happier people,
Guided
By the ultimate sign:
Smile, you're been filmed.

The wind, the farm,
The mist,
The church and the park,
The little square blocks,
The fading Polaroids,
The walks with old friends,
Carefully wrapped and tied.

Nothing new
In our daily journey,
Except for the images and the words,
The right words,
The whispered words,
Those ones that fly through
The meadows, the plains,
That turn to tornados,
That vanish entire islands,
That reflects on Mars,
That you barely understand,
But turn you over.
Words, as if they were, at least,
Pure.

I now see
Things I've imagined, and I
Am not sure
If they are just as I
Imagined
Or now that I see
I imagine I've imagined them
That way.

It is everything, except mine.
It is me, except what I've kept from me.
It is itself, otherwise specified.
Words and content,
Form, soul, intention.
Imprecisely complete
But nevertheless complete.

It is a blossom blossoming in concrete,
It is anything it was not
Five minutes ago.

A gift,
Flourishing
Within the impossible soil:
The feelings left unfelt
Between you and me.

I cannot exist
For it is impossible
That existence itself happens
Without me.

I must travel further
Than fueled only by reason.
I am consistent
In the exact measure
I'm incomplete.

Beyond the ends
Lie the limits of ourselves
For the universe
Fits in our eyes
Like a shell inside an oyster
Inside a shell.

I still am
What I should not be,
I cannot contain myself:
I'm to big for me.

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

Now and ever.

Red lights around,
Low movement,
The hot air
Just above the ground,
Freezing cold above it,
And the foggy view,
Precising my coordinates:
São Paulo,
The instant karma
Or no karma at all.

The eternal rumble
Humming like Mutants sounds
Confuses my nostalgia
(What is it that I'm hearing?),
And the more I stay,
More roots turn to branches,
More passing faces seem familiar,
And your songs make deep sad sense,
Losing the sadness, losing senses again,
Never ever the same.

A city,
Just a city,
That wouldn't meet
Self esteem if it was not
For the brizzle.

You resemble anywhere
As long as one sees
Signs and the streets' names,
For no one resemble you,
But, yet, all is contained.
The right and the wrong,
The worth, the width,
The asphalt and the airplanes,
The loneliness, the crowds,
The invisibles
And the acquainted that never crossed by,
All circumscribed within the limits
Of your endless boundaries.

The madness that doesn't grow
Does not fully consume me,
That keeps alive the useless sanity.

The madness that exhibits the unreal,
Making everything else real.

The madness of being what I never wanted,
or wanting what I never was.

This madness,
Crazy by lucidity,
Wize for losing itself
In the meanders of all possibilities.

I am crazy for all inexplicable bets,
Crazy to take by uncertain
All that my existence proves.
Crazy to wake up every day
Waiting for the hour to sleep to wake up.

Crazy, yet alive;
Alive, yet healthy;
Whole, complete,
Occupying the spaces
With my empty mind,
In the infinite
Of my tiny madness.

I'm stuck in the shy vacuum
Between art and science,
The sensitive knowledge,
The logical chaos,
Rational feelings,
And, like any middles,
Indefinite,
By definition.

In the eagerness
Of not being wrong
We miss brilliant opportunities
Of being dreadfully wrong.

Ships that miss their destinations
Are the ones that discover continents.

I'll let myself
Be again and again
A fluid mistake,
Sink to find Atlantis,
Space out to conquer stars,
Dream of being Napoleon
(In a recurring Waterloo),
I'll scream for the sake of nonsense,
And shut when everything is out of place.

A mistake, no more than
A mistake.

At least, I'll be in movement.

There are many things
That burn
And are not fuels.

Curiosity burns
When we are in doubt,
Minds burn
With ideas that are to big for them,
Even coldness burn:
We freeze, and it burns,
When we miss
The velvet touch
In our souls.

Most of all,
Forgetfulness burns
For, more than exist,
We want to be memories.