By AIRTON PASCHOA*
seven short pieces
Brazil of crying
(snake on the stairs)
with all the doubtful, who didn't want it back, angá-catu-rama! the country of crying touched by nostalgia, crying promised, and promise is a debt, priceless because radiant hope. Impossible to settle it, the flute invited to flute, and there could not have been a gift like it then, only dreaming. What promises today dark Brazil of crying? More and more tears, strictly fulfilling the letter. Let's cry, then, and dick in the literal — break, break, my people!
(And don't be broken, no!)
Pandemic
When every day is Sunday and it's not Switzerland; when no one cares whether or not the month has a holiday; when a new obituary is expected; when fear becomes a tumor; when home office get confused with a man office; when he receives in return even more violence than worthless; when silence amplifies the borborism of unfair digestion; when you see the sun rise dear and square; when the quarantine crashes into seventy eighty ninety endless soap opera and the story doesn't hold.
Negotiation
Sacristan, sacripant, just a bacterium, a virus, who doesn't see? to send you to the grave or to the vacuum with the effort of a — sneeze. Fragile life! oh, my stadium, is there anyone who swallows the old platitude? Life is fragile in a social body that doesn't care about it. Vital for him are those little microscopic mermaids that make so much profit sepsis prosper, this one, yes, very visible to the naked eye! As it is felt in the skin, disfigured, and below it, Medicine, in the tow of large laboratories and high technologies, does not go beyond a formidable business. Could it be otherwise? Power, could, as long as we send this to hell corpus morbus and caring for one to bring to the world a new body, in fact, social.
Important — not as the doctors in colonoscopy diagnose in American, important, in fact, is to test whether, with such an old and generalized infection, there is still any reaction to those infected.
Anthropocene
Boiling like an egg, cracking, releasing plaques and plagues, blue egg, seen from space, purple-blue, viewed from nasist space, airless-purple, lifeless-blue, the chosen hallelujahs survive, tycoons buried in comfortable catacombs hi-techsanas. Returning to the cave, humanity, happily and finally, knows no more dispute for a place in the sun, or in the shade.
It may not be the dreamed happy end, I admit, but it is the end of happyna. Abotinados, enjoy the right to booty. Earth is a nightmare for them!
Crossing
(rejoice)
The seasick sea, O landless ones, opens its arms to you and what you can do about it, and in respect, is queue. Fig is vain.
[testimonial]
I make it known, to whom it may be interested, that I can prove that we have stopped writing and started to testify. And it's been a while, since, since, just to register a date, even a false one, you can put half a century, little more, little less. In the last 50 years, then, barrabas! the genre seems to have taken off. They've been denouncing that our long march drags an endless trail of bodies... Misdemeanors, crimes, illicit acts, nothing. They report crimes, crimes and more crimes, crimes in series, infinite, crimes with the refinement of Humanity! What to do? We testify and the Market disposes.
Like this like that
The tropic shreds, crumbles, belies, peels. That's why I keep peeing the Komodo dragon, drigo, damn it, komodo. Standing still, I don't move in the right way — neither prodded with a short stick, nor with a long thirst. Fountains, islands, seas, waterfalls, which I can barely see from my pallet, I fantasize.
It's not like that. But it's always baked.
*Airton Paschoa is a writer, author, among other books, of the life of penguins (Nankin, 2014)
