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Burning the Boats to Hesperion

No reason and No rhyme

Burning the Boats to Hesperion

25
Mar17

Celebration

 

 

This afternoon was sound and movement.

      bangs, clarions and hisses

              the din of lovers who creep and crawl to each other.

 

It rained,

      a cold splatter, here and not here,

we talked,

      ravenous in our presence

the words of others surrounded us,

      like dishes touching dishes,

and,

       when we spoke,

our hearts were full of sound.

 

Vrooommm, buzz and kill…

 

Words were thrown at me,

and I heard them as applause

Clap, clap, clap

reassurement

Purr, purr, purr,

or confrontation

Pow, pow, pow!

 

All lost in the clang of the kitchen, the people and the cars outside the restaurant.

 

But still it was clear what I heard,

“I love you”

“Thank you for being here”

These are much better times”

“I’m happy that you’re with me”.

 

All the sounds that passed between me and my father.

Not because we don’t talk,

As we talk so much

Not because we don’t express emotions,

They come like voluble torrents of lava, violent and hearing only their sound.

Not because we don’t understand each other,

so, so much

 

But because,

some days are noisier than others,

full of streets, wants and longing,

 

and the loudest is the coming together with another.

 

All the bedlam drowns you

As you try for  love to pierce through.

 

And when you go away,

finally,

you understand the biggest noise was your heart.

 

Boom - boom - boom.

11
Mar17

Poem

 

 

I

 

 

All people have a geography and,

If you’re a interesting person,

your space is of interest to others.

 

They care about “your town”

“your streets”

“Your routes”

“Your ways”.

 

These people

   Those of interest

   Players of History

   Known by children

   And read by the multitudes

 

Are object of geographical study

Each step a direction

All gestures pregnant with volition

Going, always, with intent,

And in all moving, wanting…

Making of their lives an open easy book, understood by all.

 

This is the idea behind the idea of history, literature, religion and all that binds us.

All must be read by all.

 

But,

I think

All men have a geography.

Although there might be nothing else to distinguish them.

Although they’re the  nothing but the  silence of history,

Their routes exist,

in ways known only to themselves,

 

And what do we know

To say these voyages are worst than any other?

 

What do we know when,

Grabbing their lives

flattenning their shades

Smoothing their contradictions,

Explain their silences

and smother their explosions?

 

We make of their lives, narratives.

Explaining all,

knowing nothing.

 

Today I make this pronouncement

   Who but me?

   What time but now?

   Where but here?

That all paths of men  are to be seen.

There are no geographies more important than others,

And that,

   Although

      There’s no knowledge where there’s no hierarchy,

There will always be stories that are more interesting than others.

 

And I suggest here,

For the very first time

The hypothetical existence

Never seen because never studied

Of a man’s route that,

If absent of history

Exulted in geography.

 


Routines made of subways, trains and trams,

   The things that move

Cross lines in the skin of the city,

Mandalas made of walks to the gym and work.

Sigils born from bathroom breaks in the bar

And cosmogonies explained by your holidays in Caparica.

 

 

II

 

 

Yesterday I dreamt of a girl I loved at eleven.

And in the dream I saw her, now.

Older, thinner … a little gaunt,

But still beautiful.

She seemed nervous…

Immense, tense brown eyes

Attentive,

Dancing

As the hands clasped and unclasped.

 

And I,

I loved her with the violence that you love what is dead and done

knowing I’ll won’t it love anymore.

 

I found her in a small town

In the dream

And

After she disappeared saying very little,

I knew that that was where I would live forever.

 

Then I dreamt about her friends,

       the town,

            and how to stay there.

But that is not what I remember.

 

None of that was enough to tell you what I  dreamnt,

    Is there anything more boring than talking about dreams?

    Surely not

What made it special;

Was this:

 

In the dream they asked me if I,

       really,

              wanted to stay in the town.

Which was

In fact

So small.

 

And,

As I answered,

I felt a swelling like a tide,

 

And said

 

Yes.

She’s the love of my life.”

 

III

 

There’s a concept called “path dependence”, that says that your current decisions are determined by latter ones.

That all that happens results from what you did, no matter how remote.

And that the past is the best way to explain the present.

 

In this world there are no master plans,

No strategic visions,

Great lines,

No.

 

In this way of seeing, all that there is, is, because of all the little steps before.

No other truth but the path,

Steps taken,

And nothing else.

 

In this vision the route is all.

It’s the cause and the explanation,

The need and the answer.

 

And maybe it’s for this that all geographies are important.

Because there’s no higher value,

A total explanation,

An holistic reason

For the path that is each and everyone of us.

 

And here we stand,

With no reason or explanation,

In our own timelines

Frail and complete,

Only in it teleology

Only in it aesthetics,

Only in it the possibility of redemption.

 

And for all this,

And because of this,

 

Is why that a man,

At 44,

Can dream about the beginning of his life

with people that don’t exist anymore,

And wake up

One morning,

With his heart full of songs.

 

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