That thing of the poets 1

On the Ave

It's one of those nights
when the intersection is crazy
with cars, the park pavillion
is a sea of crack vials,
and the lady downstairs keeps
calling the cops.
Should we go out from our
prisons or just stay away
from the window? Perhaps
we might intercede
in someone loneliness. "Hi!"
At least the phone is working.
Some is dialing
like mad in the booth on
the corner, biting the end
of a blue scarf and turning
her back to the world.
There is an ambulance
screaming up the avenue
for that guy spinning
in his weelchair, the one
whom the paramedics
don gloves to handle.
The is a red moon to go
with his craziness and
a gun salute from a rooftop.
Can we be seen with the lights on,
ducking in the kitchen, are they
firing at the moon?

Mervyn Taylor

____________________________

Tonite all is well. What a
terrible future. I am twenty-three,
year of the iron birthday,
gate of darkness. I am ill,
I have become physically and
spiritually impotent in my madness this month.
I suddenly realized that my head
is severed from my body;
I realized it a few nights ago
by myself,
lying sleepless on the couch.

Allen Ginsberg

_________________________

Poesia, minha tia, ilumine as certezas dos homens e os
tons de minhas palavras. É que arrisco a prosa mesmo com
balas atravesando os fonemas. É o verbo, aquele que é maior
que o seu tamanho, que diz, faz e acontece. Aqui ele cambaleia
baleado. Dito por bocas sem dentes e olhares cariados, nos
conchavos dos becos, nas decisões da morte. A areia move-se
nos fundos dos mares. A ausência de sol escurece mesmo as
matas. O líqüido-morango do sorvete mela as mãos. A palavra
nasce no pensamento, desprende-se dos lábios adquirindo
alma nos ouvidos, e às vezes essa magia sonora não salta à boca
porque é engolhida a seco. Massacrada no estômago com arroz e
feijão a quase palavra é defecada ao invés de falada.
Falha a fala. Fala a bala.

Paulo Lins.

________________________