Somewhere in the Dark

I remember one day, back in high school,
When I was invited to spend a long
weekend at a country house of one of
my friends, and in an effort to be
a little less like myself and maybe
create a social life, I accepted.

(That effort failed, but it’s
not the focus of my writing)

The house was a few dozen kilometers
north of the city of Osasco, part of
the metropolitan São Paulo area, which
houses some twenty million people.

Where I have always lived, since I
was born, except for a couple family
vacations to the southern states, I
knew nothing but the city.

So it struck me as quite fascinating,
How star-lit the night sky was when
we got there, and how dark it was
near the ground.

I had grown used to the São Paulo
nights, where the lights from below
mix with the dark, creating a shit
brown color in the horizon.

(Not a nice image, I suppose,
But it’s just the truth.)

Light obfuscating every star, save
the moon which you could still see
if you squinted a bit harder.

I wasn’t used to a night so absolutely dark,
but I wrote about them all the time, still do.

In stories, usually, nights are used
to build suspense, terror, something
to be afraid of, but I’ve always
preferred them to the daytime.

The house also had an extensive lot
behind it, unused and wild, untouched
rain-forest with huge spiders dangling
from webs and fire ants beneath the
tall grass.

So, that night I went and got lost in it.
Singing songs as loud as I could, for I
had no fear of anyone hearing me, and
looking at the stars between the canopies.

and an hour latter I emerged, my friends
were sitting on a swing bench talking as
they saw me spring from the dark.

I had told them I was gonna go for a walk
but they didn’t think I’d take so long,
and also that I would have taken a light.

And I still don’t get it, take a flashlight,
For what? to ruin the perfectly good dark?
Nights like this are a rare commodity for
city-folk like me, why would I hide from it?

Reduced Into One Entity

Spare me your vitriolic
contempt, I need not hear
the words you vomit like
a bird feeding its kin.

I can feel as I walk past,
The daggers of your eyes,
Stabbing into my flesh,
You need not say anything.

As I walk in,
Why do you
feel the need
to have an
opinion of me?

What calamity have I brought
upon your life to make you
feel the need to hate me?

Although you do not call it hate,
Pardon me.

You love everyone, that’s right,
It’s simply about liberty, you
are a goodly person of faith,
A good Samaritan, you love me.

Just as you say that I should not
exist, that everything I am is
fraught with uncleanliness, and that
it’s all lies I have been force-fed.

You love me, and you know
I’m not truly like this.

That’s why when you impersonally
say that all of my kind are sin,
You don’t hate any of us, just the
whole putrid impersonal Us.

This other without a face, quivering
mass of maggots and sin, a legion of
mannequin bodies without features
for you to hate without empathy.

But I refuse to see you as a similar
mass of hatred, and hate the likes of
you as you have hated me– and no matter
what you call it, I will say it is hate.

Good Samaritans, goodly people of faith,
As you claim to be, are not a faceless
legion, each and every single one of them
is people I refuse to hate, and beyond that,
You are not one of them.

Fascination with the Other

Reading the great classics,
of western canon, Europeans
for whom the jungles of
america and africa were
but fables.

And I see in their writings,
the lush rainforests adventurous
protagonists brave with machetes,
facing jaguars and undiscovered
deadly insects.

But it makes me wonder, as I
walk through those fabled jungles
of my birth country, how to me
the temperate climates seem so
much more magical.

Fabled foxes, wolves, trees
whose leaves die during fall,
wild lavenders, strawberries,
the edelweiss.

Snow in the winter.

How much more splendorous,
secretive, mythical! All
those things I’ve never seen.

I’ve seen capybaras lazing
about near a river on my way
to work, I’ve seen anteaters
and rainbow-colored butterflies.

Magical as they might seem to
those whom have yet to see them.
I’ve seen it all, so many times,
this tropical rondo, I can’t
relate to the fascination at all.

Thoughts and Intentions

My soul thought something
before my brain had time
to shush it.

This curse will not befall
you, you are not like them.
Do not fool yourself, little

Tread not down this path of
misery and pain and untold
weariness, because the world
is unfair, and I, your brain,
know this.

But my soul thought something,
and before my brain shushed it
my heart heard it, and brewed it.

Inside its warmth it fostered
the thought like a goose’s egg,
plotting terribly with this
loaded gun.

Of something that shouldn’t have
been thought, how much better
would life have been if soul hadn’t
thought it, my brain still wonders.

While it looks at my soul and heart
at play, don’t they know how much
worry and suffering they cause it?

It’s the one that has to pick up the
pieces left by fickle thoughts and
emotions of the hour, there was no
reason to think this but suffering.

Other, Myself.

A creeping thought pervades her mind.

It scurries unassailable, in the dark and in the deep and wherever else it can find give. It makes itself know in every opportunity, whenever she finds herself idle, it’s there, reminding her of itself, so that she may never forget.

Is it evil? For its unending assail of her senses, for the way it whispers in her ear, for the way in which it sits dark and unforgiving by the side of her bed when she comes home at night, and stares, and stares, unforgiving of any and all compromises.

It will have its way, it will accept nothing less, and it knows itself inevitable, in time it will prevail over all that is other.

It started small, a tittering pitter-patter of tiny feet upon dreams, which were hardly noticed, and hardly given any thought. In this willful ignorance they grew by hanging upon every crevice they could, wherever there was foothold, it stood cowardly in the shadows, till it grew big enough to stand without fear.

Now it lingers here, she sleeps, and yet it hangs by the side of the bed, standing and watching her. Its beady white eyes in the amorphous blackness of its being stare intently upon her face, without blinking or flinching.

She knows this, she knows it stares, and she sleeps uneasy, but sleeping still for she knows she can do nothing, to lash at it would simply make it disappear from one side and appear at the other. To try to hide is futile for it will stand by the side of any bed upon which she lays, she can do nothing but accept, and feel it creep ever closer.

Once upon a time, she asked why.

Why is it?

It could not answer, only stare.

For it is it, not her nor Him, it. Amorphous It, ephemeral It, unreal It.

She walks through the woods, a little red riding hood to deliver candies from her basket to her sickly grandma, making her way into grandma’s house, she stares at it laying on the bed, she tries to ignore.

“Grandma, what big eyes you have”

It says nothing

“What big ears”

It says nothing

“And what big hands”

It says nothing

“And your feet too!”

It says nothing


She can go no longer, she can pretend no longer, and leaves.

A Human Dimension

In the city in which I live,
There are five dimensions, the
three dimensional space of our
reality, time in constant flux,

And something hard to describe,
That allows us to ignore things
right in front of us as if they
didn’t exist at all.

I walk the main avenue of my city
a lot, with its towering skyscrapers,
Amazing museums, parks and the hustle
of a capital with millions of people.

Yet, everyday I also see beggars there,
Crouching near the walls, and homeless
sleeping under the bus stop shelters,
I pass by all of them without looking.

This all is right in front of me, and all
others who walk these streets, plain to
see, and yet, the 5th dimension of our
city allows us to not notice a single
thing, unless we wish to see.

Dimensions are thought to be governed
by the laws of physics, but in my time
I’m sure I’ve discovered one that cares
for naught but the amoral nature of the
human spirit.


A forgotten thought,
How could it be?
A soliloquy.

My kind, dearest of friends,
My own insufferable greed;
Is it greed, was it greed?
That pulls at me, and coerces me.

As if it were someone else!
I coerce no one but myself,
Far be it from stones thrown
by another, it is my greed.

Greedy to wish things such as this,
For me.

Paint me a picture,
Sing me a song,
Write me a verse,
Or two or a few
Thousand more.

Anything, anything,
To fill this pit.

I dug myself, so they say.
I dug myself, so it is.
I dug myself, to feel like this.

It isn’t
That hard,
Simply put:

My greed is
Everything wrong with me.