—Yeah. —I haven’t seen too many around lately. Things have been tough lately for dreamers. They say dreaming is dead, no one does it anymore. It’s not dead it’s just that it’s been forgotten, removed from our language. Nobody teaches it so nobody knows it exists. The dreamer is banished to obscurity. Well, I’m trying to change all that, and I hope you are too. By dreaming, every day. Dreaming with our hands and dreaming with our minds. Our planet is facing the greatest problems it’s ever faced, ever. So whatever you do, don’t be bored, this is absolutely the … Continue reading Hey, are you a dreamer?

I have watched, with a fatigue that predates my own birth, the slow crumbling of pedestals. I have seen men draw maps of their own virtues, describing in meticulous, ink-stained detail the demons they would never permit themselves to be—only to inhabit those very shadows by nightfall. They swore their angels would never stoop, yet I see the dust of the abyss on their wings. So, if you find me retreating to the corner of some dim cathedral, mixing holy water with the salt of my own prayers, do not mistake it for piety. It is merely a hygiene for … Continue reading Waking with the wolves

Dizem que o corpo é entrega, mas o corpo é apenas um disfarce que se retira e se devolve ao armário. Se eu te dou a minha pele, amanhã acordo inteira em mim mesma; pego-me de volta, lavo-me do seu toque e sigo. O sexo é um cansaço que passa. Mas a conversa… ah, a conversa é uma hemorragia de silêncios rompidos. Quando te dou meus pensamentos, não há devolução. Você parte levando um pedaço real de mim, algo que não é carne, mas o que sustenta a carne. Você vai embora com o que está sob o meu couro, … Continue reading O Despudor do Pensamento

I arrived to nurture your seed, those small, hard silences that tremble in the marrow of winter’s chill. There is a vertical anxiety in this arrival. It is not the fear of the unknown, of those uncharted paths where one might lose a shoe or a soul. No, it is the heavy, humid weight of the “already been.” It is the exhaustion of carrying ghosts we forgot to say goodbye to. We are prisoners who have fallen in love with our bars, only to realize, with a sudden and terrifying clarity, that the keys have always been warm within our … Continue reading The Weight of the Key

Hoje ela faria oitenta e três anos, se o tempo fosse essa coisa linear que nos contam. Mas Marília não cabe em números; ela é um estado de espírito. Era uma, mas carregava em si o cansaço e a glória de mil mulheres. Pianista, bailarina, cantora, o que importa o título? Ela era, sobretudo, presença. Marília, Presente! Dizem que aos quatro anos ela já experimentava o chão do palco. O que sente uma criança ao descobrir que o mundo é feito de tábuas e luzes? Talvez ali ela tenha entendido que a solidão de um monólogo não é falta, mas … Continue reading O Instante-Já de Marília

Tupi or not Tupi? This is not a question; it is a devouring. I stand before the mirror of my own origin and I do not see a face, I see an appetite. To be Tupi is to eat the world, to swallow the stranger until his strength becomes my own blood. But to not be? That is the silence of the bone. That is the desert where nothing grows because nothing has been consumed. I feel the weight of this choice in the bridge of my nose, in the way my feet grip the floorboards. It is a dizzying … Continue reading The Hunger of the Identity

I do not sit at my desk to work; I sit as one who leans over a well, desperate for a drop of water that might save a life. Most likely, my own. We are not static things, you and I. We are a state of being kindled, a temporary flame dancing against the vastness of the dark. When I face the “white abyss” of the empty page, I am not looking for grammar or logic. I am a child hunting for a lost marble in the tall grass. I am looking for it, that singular, electric spark that says, … Continue reading The Sparkle

The anger in me is not a scream; it is a silence that has finally found its weight. It is a dense, pulsating thing that refuses the grace of a poem. To write a poem is to organize, and my anger will not be organized. It sits. It simply sits in the corner of my heart like a dark guest who has no intention of leaving, watching with wide, unblinking eyes as my words scramble to muffle their own noise so they do not deafen me. How can one speak of “one human race”? To say those words is to … Continue reading My Anger

Mother! Come, lean close. Listen to my head as it spills rich stories of places I have not yet traveled. Bring me ink, incarnate, visceral. Bring me ink the color of blood, blood! True, deep crimson. I need to stain the white of the page with the pulse of what hasn’t happened yet. Mother! Run your hand through my hair. Let your fingers find the map of my restlessness. I have not traveled, not yet, and yet my memory refuses to hold anything but departures. I am going to travel. I have a thirst, a dry, aching hollow in the … Continue reading January — 2016

É um silêncio de ovo, esse que se instala quando a última lâmpada do sonho se apaga. Não é uma morte de sangue, dessas que se noticia com alarde; é uma morte de fibra, um desfiamento lento do eu. “Quando deixamos de sonhar, morremos dentro desta realidade crua de desafetos.” E o que resta? O osso. O osso seco da verdade sem enfeites. A alma, que antes era melodia, torna-se um ruído de passos em corredor vazio. Eu me pergunto: onde vai o suspiro quando a esperança desiste de nós? A realidade, essa coisa árida e pontiaguda, nos espeta com … Continue reading O Alfabeto das Cinzas