ANIMAL PLASMA

My father in front of me behind the white wooden gate he leaning against the red cadillac with others a corner look as I watched my left foot in the air I was trying to balance me on the pavement my first steps beside me my mother wearing a patterned dress my grandmother behind with brown skirt  and a starched white blouse I noticed the roses the grass the flowerbeds the smell of the air the trees the rumour of dripping water falling in a tank the blue and white sky the garden of freedom

Dear Jalinne, thanks for her participation in my leather yesterday,  do not try to love me I have nervous ticks - it eat words and for dessert   invents light ideas in the middle of the war - Do not even try to hate me - you are an intelligence and it is  easier and not solve the question - Why not makes the corrections I asked for and sent to you? It is hard i know - human discipline does not need pancakes - I need - after you finalise the work and  will can to prepare it - Thanks again 

I was on the bus and she touched me holding my hands. I opened my eyes and saw her. She led me to coffee and said to me that we would marry, and have children. We would go watch a movie and dance spinning as free couple, and sing at home together and    to warm our family. One day she got away with our children and disappeared. I take the bus and never open my eyes when a hand, like the her, touches me.

  What tomorrow means comes from our worldview, our past into the present. What reveals is the sense of our steps dimensioned on memory. Like the cat that does not leave an easy step mark to see, we think, create, transform concepts, and invent others without realizing that our presence in the world came from these little invisible pieces of our history. It is like it, and we can go there in the past, and make archaeology from lived, and without knowing after research, see the things recuperated, the same things that are around us here. From there what is here, from rituals, the mystification of flesh, death meaning, the objects, a cup to water, or to oblation.      The things comport as iconography substantial mnemonic signals, in everything the face behind secrets, the eyes of cat. In a certain sense, it lives in the present since a way of be or a gesture that we do by chance. We are connected to  say that past is transformed in many presents. The historical p...

      A rare Sun-ray, like a stamp, insisted on appearing on a day between September and October, a rainy Friday, gasoline prices in the South Continent with higher variation, and with little hope smashed in the pocket. The dirty, expensive glasses tucked into the inside pocket of my blazer. I can not see without glasses. I do not hear very well; my attention changes stroll.     The humid air was a splendid taste waiting for people, an illusion. To my life, it was a future without a tomorrow, never seen again. A friend greeted me: it is me, man. She passed along, and I saw the traces of high shoes cracking the sidewalk with an enchantment of a woman with a clear decision to follow, a direction to do a logical thing or decidedly cause a nightmare in the life of someone.     In her face was inscription an annoyance charm natural from that day. Their eyes were green - or not, a trail between her eyebrows, giving a fashion look on the place, a responsibili...

     As hortaliças podem esperar, estão no cercado em um fundo do quintal e no jardim pequeno da frente caindo ao acaso pelas cercas, o tempo de amadurecimento, não se revela em sua prontidão de continua renovação entre chuva, vento, sol, e o que ainda dorme possui a expectativa de despertar, retornar ao seu momento, algo presente e quieto, ardente como uma vida que se dispõe à viver, e por isso o corte das folhas, a colheita, o fruto da terra entregue em si mesmo definitivo e desperdiçado.           Todo de si entregue em ser cuidados com a forma,  o ambiente e toda a atmosfera que o cultivar, essa relação que a força faz produzir a delicadeza, e o contato em diálogos silenciosos de agricultor, acompanha a florescência mesmo quando apenas provê o tempo, jardineiro das estações, e do gesto que impõe alguma técnica, amador de amar o viver, convive com os traços de um constante aprender que depõe no cesto todo intrincado por amarras veloze...