Saltar para: Posts [1], Pesquisa [2]

luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Peter Gizzi - The Growing Edge

There is a spike
in the air
a distant thrum
you call singing
and how many nights
this giganto, torn
tuned, I wonder if
you hear me
I mean I talk
to myself through you
hectoring air
you’re out there
tonight and so am I
for as long as
I remember
I talk to the air
what is it
to be tough
what ever
do you mean
how mistaken
can I be, how
did I miss it
as I do entirely
and admit very
well then
I know nothing
of the world
can see it now
can really see
there is a spike
a distant thrum
to the empty
o’clock autumn litter
it’s ominous, gratuitous
the asphalt quality
these feelings
it’s Sunday in deep space
and in the breeze
scatters, felt presences
behind the hole
in the day, sparks
ominous spike
I’ve not been here
before, my voice is
looking for a door
this offing light
reaching into maw
what does it mean
to enter that room
the last time
I remembered it
an un gathering
every piece of
open sky into it
the deep chill
inventing, and
is it comfort
the cold returning
now clear and
crystalline cold
I standing
feet on the ground
I frozen and
I can feel it
to meet incumbent
death we carry
within us a body
frozen ground
what does it mean
to be tough
or to write a poem
I mean the whole
vortex of home
buckling inside
a deep sea whine
flash lightning
birth storms
weather of pale
blinding life

Peter Gizzi - Wrapper Frag

The world today
is slowcore,
a rhythm section
dragging.

At the moment
I drag and solo
in a bitten landscape,
torn vowels
that sound out vowel
or sadness like glitters
prinkled in a mind.

A sun-slashed parking lot,
thinking a poem
stalled
in the broken
surround.

See the chubby kid dazed,
his spilled bike,
more debris,
CVS in the distance.

Remember me
to convenience stores.
I saw this too
every life of my day
yet I ate, I had money,
and a car.

Peter Gizzi - Lessons in Darkness

Those notes are fetching
when they touch the ear.
It's true, there are more tears
in sand than water.
"Come out and play,"
the song's refrain
in my head, my sawdust showing.
My heart, your eyes
is what the day made.

There, the notes, the song,
the besidedness to live
on Saturday, to walk out,
wanted to, right out the frame.
The sadness, gas pumps,
sunshine on oil,
that crow overhead
destroys the picture.
Everything faking it so badly.

What's so wrong about the real,
so off with clarity,
dumbfuck, shirttail-hanging
scatter-brained word.
Shattered-pane world?

The whir of the camera inside pictures
but we want the voice to lift,
don't we, across the mini-plaza
to where? How about
pulling taffy for a living
or a rabbit from one ideal-ology
to another. That's the trick
isn't it, parallel lives?

You know, here a dumpster
there a Dane. On the street
I see birds, bricks, clouds
I see a friend getting into her car
I see myself in the puddle I see.
And even if we pray to remain
unabated, a minor chord
can sometimes reconnoiter
the most distant thoughts
camouflaged in lace and literature.

O western wind let's not
decorate the light with roseate diadems,
plumbago shadows in the rushes.
Haven't we heard enough
from the birds, their annual trips
and cross-talk? Listen.
The arc of a rocket
is louder than a rainbow.

Peter Gizzi - Pretty Sweety

Here there are small animals
foraging and content

Perhaps this is what’s called
perhaps love is a small animal foraging

content entirely with its mouth there
with the ant and the sun and fur

This is a strange view
sunlight and furlight and a mouth

busy with nature
a mouth busy with its bloom

a mouth blooming loveliness