Little dead beatles on clean bathroom floors
Marcelo´s bread is beautiful again. Tomorrow when he isn´t here and his bread is, I wonder how beautiful it will be. It´s soft inside but sesame seeds on the top and tempos demais-too much time- in the oven make it hard.
Cutting it, hard-like the thought of my Brasilian memories-I fumble and make a mess of the bread-spilling little white crumbs over the plastic lid. Hard, hard, hard. My book-The Famished Road-and this bread-hard, and precious.
Precious when I stop reading and can´t stop crying because it pressed me so fiercely to harsh reality -like burnt earthen walls -and the imprint of it stings my cheek and hands and knee fronts when I let go-when I´m free.
Hard. What is it? Things feel hard today. My alarm didn´t go off again this morning and I missed my chance to travel with the beautiful Spanish woman-to camp and trek and eat fajitas and banana oatmeal cookies at waterfalls and view points on Parco do Brigodeiro -missed a week-end of fine and lovely memories-lost because I´m me and didn´t set my alarm right and what must she think of me?-Hard-What is it?
It´s a bathroom with the light left off and a little woman leaking from too young eyes and below and leaking air all out of her chest because the dead bicho´s on the clean tile floors and the smell of the used papel beside her is just more of life-and because she doesn´t know how to connect it all..-
-all these bits from lovely and brutal books and comfortable moments with light blue sheets and too strong sweet coffee and bread that´s cooked just a little too long and people that don´t know you and never will and who will never like you
-trails with beautiful red soil and heat that burns the back of your neck- hard wooden benches with bits of people´s lives spread all over it-sharing and connecting in portuguese and english and spanish and french
-silent moments in the viveiro with plants you are learning to know and your fingernails which are always dirty here-lunches of beans and rice and dinners of garraoba-bits of all sorts of things
-vistas shared with brasilierias who speak too quickly-missed buses into Limeira where another festa would have filled the night
-music from guitars and flutes and Ipods and mp3´s and little quartos´s-bedrooms-with green filling the open window and spiders and sappo´s-frogs-hiding in all the corners- all seperated and unreal..
..bits and bits of life and only fragments-broken like broken tiles on clean bathroom floors and little dead beatles everywhere.
..
Hard, hard, hard, and I don´t want anything else.
Cutting it, hard-like the thought of my Brasilian memories-I fumble and make a mess of the bread-spilling little white crumbs over the plastic lid. Hard, hard, hard. My book-The Famished Road-and this bread-hard, and precious.
Precious when I stop reading and can´t stop crying because it pressed me so fiercely to harsh reality -like burnt earthen walls -and the imprint of it stings my cheek and hands and knee fronts when I let go-when I´m free.
Hard. What is it? Things feel hard today. My alarm didn´t go off again this morning and I missed my chance to travel with the beautiful Spanish woman-to camp and trek and eat fajitas and banana oatmeal cookies at waterfalls and view points on Parco do Brigodeiro -missed a week-end of fine and lovely memories-lost because I´m me and didn´t set my alarm right and what must she think of me?-Hard-What is it?
It´s a bathroom with the light left off and a little woman leaking from too young eyes and below and leaking air all out of her chest because the dead bicho´s on the clean tile floors and the smell of the used papel beside her is just more of life-and because she doesn´t know how to connect it all..-
-all these bits from lovely and brutal books and comfortable moments with light blue sheets and too strong sweet coffee and bread that´s cooked just a little too long and people that don´t know you and never will and who will never like you
-trails with beautiful red soil and heat that burns the back of your neck- hard wooden benches with bits of people´s lives spread all over it-sharing and connecting in portuguese and english and spanish and french
-silent moments in the viveiro with plants you are learning to know and your fingernails which are always dirty here-lunches of beans and rice and dinners of garraoba-bits of all sorts of things
-vistas shared with brasilierias who speak too quickly-missed buses into Limeira where another festa would have filled the night
-music from guitars and flutes and Ipods and mp3´s and little quartos´s-bedrooms-with green filling the open window and spiders and sappo´s-frogs-hiding in all the corners- all seperated and unreal..
..bits and bits of life and only fragments-broken like broken tiles on clean bathroom floors and little dead beatles everywhere.
..
Hard, hard, hard, and I don´t want anything else.
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