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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Adam Fitzgerald - George Washington

You were my gym buddy ferreting along spotty florescent ramps.

Misbegotten signals blinked out bumpkin lanes over sable grass.


We passed through many things. Peach sirens, entryway orderlies.

Mangled disposition-stations. Chief in disbelief was concrete love.


Firmer still, a melee awkwardness that showed all registrants just

how we managed to pickpocket night. Then came dark crowds.


Some doodled for the pad, debriefed what pumiced eyes meant

in multi-dotted foreign rows. Buildings like a spider’s clothes.


Later, we sped backward. A maw orchard, windless in the mind,

boomed electronic lifts. I spied you at the prow of some sensation.


I declined to call another name. Pelting noise flew off fairy citadels.

Clocks, first thought abducted, were switched. Dialogues dispelled.


My love heard a mug crash on the countertop of Long Island Sound.

Our people became as ones lost. Not many rebounded with pledge,


not many fetched familiars, stretched legs, reread white meetings.

O stream, ring your ears. Handsome tubers, go ahead and wig out.


Modern territories click like a mouse. Body becomes human body.

On a skinny avenue I hushed up pyramidal steps older than sorcery.


You know how I want to share a dust ball with misty partner.

Dance one fabled evening and hear the skylark do something.


Picnics bended over, they happen below. Swings parks rung.

I inject chlorine into my memory-parts with lady satisfaction.


Are you gay? A political campaign sanctioned a quart of moose.

So stars soon quarreled back to the travel section of the North.


I ignored that and opened my lips for a job to crunch and push

at me, seeing the flat spacey wherewithal of disconnected items.


I want a second act. What can I say but this was my second act.

Must wrangle a look-see. The sign revenging its timely laziness


in the ruffled strut of an accusing pillow. I hibernate in phrase

as perfect as the mood of the blue lotus flower. Public aspects.


The last shipment of vhs tapes left its factory on this day in 2008

or 2009. Meanwhile, delis around town don’t go like they used to.


Who cares if I can’t hose you down my you, my Newfoundland.

And George Washington, someone we can’t really know, rows


over famed waters, wondering what his face will be, not in

the future, not for the monthly book clubs. But as sovereign:


as beast with dunce cap. I will dress you down in fresh lettuce

and gobble your ear off with smutty keys principled as music.


The marching saints won’t bother in battalion to much know.

We make of him so much hackneyed affection, dress wounds


as if equivocal all need. Hunger passes through to the other side.

Entertaining pals you wouldn’t call but couldn’t not think to.


A disfigured face’s humiliated psychic debris sprawls on gussy rug.

It talks you into needing solace while cup passes from sleep to sleep.


The positional plot warps but is the same. The deluxe mattress drifts

on gravitational subtleties like the rest of us, practicing the gut’s banjo.


No, in fact, I don’t know how he ever crossed the channels or canals

from that stout city. I don’t really know if I ever really need to know.


One thing we share is worshipping the image of a person we never knew.

Adam Fitzgerald - Poem with Accidental Memory

That we go back to life one day, the next,
Some other century where we were alive,


When music spelled itself out to us, often
Incomplete, and nothing was more vague


Than the banality of  whom to love and lose
In line, the doppelgangers in rimless snow,


Or even now, in summer, at day, by night,
When something oblivious, replete, turns


Back at us in idolatrous quiet, so we see
Who in nullified particulars we really are


At a desk of our own making, filling in for
Someone else’s life sentence, blots drying


On a silk tie having no meaning but today’s,
When the loner puts his insomnia to rest.

Adam Fitzgerald - Here Comes The Hotstepper

Unlike my older brother, I generally enjoyed the nineties.
A world of Netscape, chat rooms and Fruit by the Foot.
I remember them like the debossed covers of R.L. Stein.
Neon sex toys dotting our suburban malls lead us to believe
in an intimacy communicated beyond brand names
when our couch sucked back into a shady hole of hands.
September came, laden with unused Trapper Keepers.
Macarenas were danced. Ring Pops were had. Giga Pets
and Beanie Babies, Dunk-A-roos and VHS cassettes.
The Little Golden Books by my bed told me stories.
Cedar Crest and chlorine. I remember snow days.
Watching humanoid Bob Barker on split-screen TV.
Closed armoires scented with piney Lemon Pledge.
In the woods was mesh and abandoned buckets of
porn beside inscrutable rainbow tree frog corpses.
Lisas and Jessicas and Matthews and Michaels all.
Narcotic and green, a risible lump disturbed life,
dizzying mallets hobbling us to plastic-farm noon.
Success metrics had incomparable swish. People
kept moving and threaded through one another
with slogging garage door jerkiness. And most
menacing: how happiness encroached with slow
ultimatums fatalistically stuck to stick-resistant pans.
Abundance, reversed now, feels shod. Feels pocked.
It could be no more than a rake in the trunk of a car.
I didn’t know then what a locker room was for.
Friends were screen names and infinitely away.
If I had to point a finger, if I had to queue a song
to play my life, if the finishing move was finality,
wouldn’t my sense of the nineties bring back painless
simplicity in transit? Weight Watchers and frozen
people. Linoleum not to be remembered if outlived.
Afterwards, I saw what they did to the bed furniture.
I knew their services weren’t free. Not to “go there.”
What was taken from me is still happening. Scrubbed
out. Tossed out. I never cared for the dishes. What
they replaced me with not me. That was never me.

Adam Fitzgerald - Ocean of Dick

Questions remain about the sexuality of the historical Jesus. Across abandoned lawns in south Detroit, kids chuck rocks. Over text one day, one says to the other: “Follow me.”


Imagine a sleepy college town on the northeast. Iffy hetero guys. Arguments about nostalgia in early gangsta rap. Talks on Catherine Opie, Kohl’s, the hacker revolution.


Senator Nebuchadnezzar (R-NV) had dreams in the second year of his term and couldn’t sleep. Thoughts of night-visions, thickening dumb sleep. Like a sword in your ribs.


My subconscious wars even as my physical maleness remains, like a chemical weapon, to suppress and explore. Like a sea of persons, rhythmic and integrated, Light from Light, true God from true God, begotten not made.


And entering the sepulcher, they saw a young man clothed in white; and they suffered great panic. And he said, Be not afraid. He is risen; he is not here. Behold the place where they laid him.


Words drop from me like rubber snakes. I pull the dry sponge of so many pale, dark flowers to my mouth, around my neck, sleeved into my thighs. Imagine them piled in heaps and heaps. Like the dead: gentle and limp.