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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Lawrence Joseph - It's Not Me Shouting At No One

Before dawn, on the street again,
beneath sky that washes me
with ice, smoke, metal.
I don't want to think
the bullet pierced my shoulder,
the junkie's rotten teeth
laughed, his yellow hair froze.
I'm careful: 1 smoke
Turkish tobacco cigarette butts,
1 drink a lot to piss a lot,
I fry the pig in its own fat,
eat the knuckles, brain, and stomach;
I don't eat the eyes!
Always four smokestacks
burning bones, somewhere
tears that won't stop,
everywhere blood becomes
flesh that wants to say something.
It's not me shouting at no one
in Cadillac Square: it's God
roaring inside me, afraid
to be alone.

Lawrence Joseph - So Where Are We?

So where were we? The fiery
avalanche headed right at us—falling,

 

flailing bodies in midair—
the neighborhood under thick gray powder—

 

on every screen. I don’t know
where you are, I don’t know what

 

I’m going to do, I heard a man say;
the man who had spoken was myself.

 

What year? Which Southwest Asian war?
Smoke from infants’ brains

 

on fire from the phosphorus
hours after they’re killed, killers

 

reveling in the horror. The more obscene
the better. The point at which

 

a hundred thousand massacred
is just a detail. Asset and credit bubbles

 

about to burst. Too much consciousness
of too much at once, a tangle of tenses

 

and parallel thoughts, a series of feelings
overlapping a sudden sensation

 

felt and known, those chains of small facts
repeated endlessly, in the depths

 

of silent time. So where are we?
My ear turns, like an animal’s. I listen.

 

Like it or not, a digital you is out there.
Half of that city’s buildings aren’t there.

 

Who was there when something was, and a witness
to it? The rich boy general conducts the Pakistani

 

heroin trade on a satellite phone from his cave.
On the top floor of the Federal Reserve

 

in an office looking onto Liberty
at the South Tower’s onetime space,

 

the Secretary of the Treasury concedes
they got killed in terms of perceptions.

 

Ten blocks away the Church of the Transfiguration,
in the back a Byzantine Madonna—

 

there is a God, a God who fits the drama
in a very particular sense. What you said—

 

the memory of a memory of a remembered
memory, the color of a memory, violet and black.

 

The lunar eclipse on the winter solstice,
the moon a red and black and copper hue.

 

The streets, the harbor, the light, the sky.
The blue and cloudless intense and blue morning sky.