quarta-feira, 13 de fevereiro de 2013

Yield, bitch!


There are several ways that lead
me to where I am not.
They start here 
with me 
and go through all
my friends, who are my bridges. 

I remember once I asked a friend out.
(he – could be she – is representing a certain group)
Just for small talk. Maybe coffee. Definitely laughter.
He bailed and bailed until my last hair
had dropped. I am too busy, 
he said. And his life was a bullet express train 
and I guess he saw me waving
from the platform.

They say we see things differently from a train
in movement. They say the faster the train goes
the more still the landscape will look.
They say if you are as fast as light,
you see the atoms stopped at their platforms,
waving with their 
tacky gipsy-styled 
electron handkerchiefs.

The thing is, the trick of perspective,
I, standing there, in that platform
one station called life
or something like that
I, as far as I can be concerned,
(and I was)
did not see anything. It was just a blur
passing in front of my eyes and
I knew he was in there.
I shouted, at the top of my voice,
Yield, bitch! Here I am!
(but apparently, speed hampers hearing too)

Last week I traveled. I went to places
you would never believe. One they call the
Big Apple. There was indeed a silvery one
but I guess that came after and was a coincidence.

There were buildings tickling the skies
And lights everywhere.
And people. People walking and talking 
I felt like I was 
in a God-just-confused Babel.
They were everywhere, even in my dreams.
I was afraid of getting home
taking off my shoes
and having someone in one of them 
with a map saying, mi scusi, io sono lost.

I fell in love with the smells and the noise.
It was what made me cherish my silence more.
And as I walked, mind you, I started to worry
and hurry as the rest.
However, the small things, the flakes of snow
a piece of street art, some picture in a museum
were telling me I should slow down
I could hear them hissing
in unison
Yield, bitch! Because here we are.

Going to Boston, from Chinatown
A singing and grumpy Chinese bus driver,
was talking on the phone, mind you.
All the time. How he
grumbled! And how rude he was to the guys
begging for a password. No wifi for you.

People got fancier.
Colder weather, warmer heart.
Soup and brief encounters.
Rocks, statues, miles and miles of
history and art.
And after midnight, it was time to sneak out
and explore the roofs of the neighborhood.
Precise as a street cat,
silent to get in and out. Licking my fur proudly afterwards.

Also, as a bout of fever
(never saw it coming)
passion's fingers wrapped around me
and my shields went transparent.
Yield, bi... Wait! He did.

And there was the last step.
In a set of stairs that was not going
up or down.
Now it was Washington, the capital of the world.
Or of the empire. So they say.
Marble and paint vomiting history.
We even touched the moon.
Experiences side by side, as the Smithsonian museums.
Smiles and fun. Feet blisters.
When you were ice-skating it was so amusing
that huge penguins wouldn't let you fall.

New friends, one
that was worth more than a hundred
Yield, b... OK. I guess I am just tired.

So life went on
One day at a time.
And more people came,
some vanished.
Others would never stop.
Hey, busy one, I keep yelling,
Yield, bitch!
Or run over me.

(But if you do,
please be decent, 
do not dare looking back.) 

2 comentários:

  1. You wrote a poem about yielding, bitch. I'm so honoured! jajajaj

  2. Still wondering how you can thought all about it in the middle of a marvelous trip