By AIRTON PASCHOA*
seven short pieces
Wax Museum
My grandfather listened to Vicente Leporace on the radio.
My grandson's grandfather used to watch Artur da Távola on TV.
One spoke of politics, another of classical music.
The grandson, mute, neither sees nor hears.
Like, love, share, isolated.
the cube squared
Inside the cube rolls the guilt.
The guilt of the guilt of the guilt...
What's my fault?
Go up and down, with your shoulders.
Down river, up river.
What fault do we have?
I interrogate the father, the son and sneeze.
Six, the cube falls.
The morning starts cold like an IML room.
The chest flutters and cannot flutter.
Rubber soles erase the steps.
Andantino
Scratch, scratch, cramp!
The shard of light, the slash of blue, the blood of dusk.
And the closed eyes and the darting breath.
I take a deep breath and step.
Earthquake
When we turn off the light
and we turn our backs
the bed opens and rolling goes
each in its abyss.
Of course we return
and the new day will dawn
and you will laugh and scold
and go back to sleep and wake up. But
it is impossible to avoid the slight tremor.
Parede
Strange. The ballet was so beautiful it evoked childhood. That's what he told the reporter who had interviewed him. The prefecture distributed cultural soup to the population hungry for beauty. At one of these points, the wall painter was terrified with emotion with the body he had never seen before, glued to the pole. What kind of childhood was the miserable being making a poster of… Ours? with the nursery rhymes running in fast time at ever more stray steps? Yours, surrounded by immense and mysterious adults, almost gods in their power to love or kill? Of humanity's childhood in solemn ballet around the Sun? That childhood we never lived and spent our lives trying to forget? He didn't speak, he went back to the wall as if his back were turned. And the tremor of the shoulders from time to time has the appearance of a childhood miscarriage.
Drawing
I haven't drawn in a while.
The word morning, for example. Rising with its hills and lakes, its sun rising from behind the slope, almost as high as the tiny setting cloud.
Or would it be legs like lightning running over everything after the severed kite?
Morning.
Morning that without cloud, of a painful blue, has been letting rise in the chest and in the stone, cunningly, what it always was and is since the first man inscribed it with stylus and hope.
the haloed poet
The poet laureate recites at the University
he lives close
The poet laureate is called when there is a party on campus
was student teacher poet laureate
The poet laureate is a figure in the community
starts the race rescues the argonauts
it rains applause
the poet laureate speaks of time
of love of death of metamorphosis
then come back home
The house is big and sunny.
like the laughter of the woman he loves
and prepare the duck with orange
The poet laureate eats the duck with orange
and will vote for Diana the poem that ruminates
The haloed poet is American
*Airton Paschoa is a writer, author, among other books, of Bain marie(e-galaxy, 2021, 2nd edition, magazine).
