Fragments XXVI



five short pieces

little case or little-case?

the Universe is around 14 billion years old
the Earth more or less 4,5 billion
the hominid about 2 million
the man 300 thousand
I have no idea about the hyphen


The birds spend the whole afternoon talking. It doesn't have to be about us, everything has already been said, rewritten and well said. They will talk about what matters, about the new air, the change of wind, the change of season, the autumn full of gifts, the one or another that has taken wing. Maybe they talk about the huge, gangly bird, the heavy load, the free fall, we don't know, the impact that made them take flight in fright. They noticed that it didn't have wings, they didn't understand. The window would remain closed for a long time, without the sill seeds they so cherished. They would still not understand... but, also, who understands this stunning blue?

Keep dreaming

No more soft buddhas, we have to become firm buddhas! Believing everything is a dream... It's not a rhyme and it looks like a solution. We abolish the fearful world, which we barely tolerate because we cannot drop another bomb on Manhattan, and we retreat to the inner world, the only one that exists, so we dream. The one in the interior, where we dreamed of taking refuge, also went to the marsh, with the inauguration of the mimimi-miami bridge. So I continue dreaming in reverse, you continue dreaming in reverse, a version of a fairer order. Another comparative advantage is that we slide out of bed and don't need to open our eyes. Do you want a greater wonder? No, it's not somnambulism, darling... it is, it is... creatinine.

Anonymous (c. 2023 CE)

Every brief poem is born anonymously. Baptized or pagan, registered or rescued, fragment or pretense, no poet speaks there, person none. Nobody. We hear the singular voice whispering to us, which seems like ours and we don't recognize it – a voice as if from the depths of time decanted, serpentine, from whose spell we try in vain to distinguish the elements. He speaks our same language, doubles our same accent, breaks our same silence, and we don't understand what he says, foreigners in our own homeland. We shake, the poem hisses.


It's good to remember you, to remember you even unraveling, diluting yourself into ropes, which I try to cling to, demanding to go down deeper and deeper, barely allowing myself to be caught in the gesture, in the laughter, in the low gaze of black arches, going up, you know god to what sky forgotten from where every now and then you fall miraculously like the extinct drizzle of the city and then I find myself tied, covered, covered, and I fall to bed congested, when with the force of fever I make a thousand statements that you don't understand, neither do I, and we laugh, I mean, you laugh, I'm dying of coughing in your arms, I expectorate, I stertor, all crooked, so glued to your lap, my heart in my mouth beating, I'm scared too, but I open the door and knock the boots, with the canned wind and the vision.

*Airton Paschoa is a writer. Author, among other books, of Polishing chinelo (e-galáxia) []

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