e
eu
ia dizer
que não existe
lugar perfeito
03/31/2009
se eu fosse escrever um livro
seria algo muito complexo
inventaria uma história de tramas e tremores
que iria se expandindo
expandindo
e sumindo
desaparecendo aos poucos
evaporando em si mesma
vapores novelísticos de primeiríssima qualidade
seria simples assim
só não seria um poema
pois isso sim é mais simples
ainda
03/06/2008
ela não conseguiu dizer até logo.
enquanto isso, sentada à mesa, desenhava com migalhas sobre a toalha escura. tracejava farelos em torno da faca. da colher.
não olhava nada. adivinhava nada. cega do seu futuro. perdida do seu presente.
o bilhete que ela escrevera não dizia nada. nem até logo.
o bilhete em branco diante dela. ali, naquele espaço despedaçado.
não, não seria possível até logo.
e ela
09/26/2007
Me and Miss Mandible
“Miss Mandible wants to make love to me but she hesitates because I am officially a child; I am, according to the records, according to the gradebook on her desk, according to the card index in the principal’s office, eleven years old. There is a misconception here, one that I haven’t quite managed to get cleared up yet. I am in fact thirty-five, I’ve been in the Army, I am six feet one, I have hair in the appropriate places, my voice is a baritone, I know very well what to do with Miss Mandible if she ever makes up her mind.
In the meantime we are studying common fractions. I could, of course, answer all the questions, or at least most of them (there are things I don’t remember). But I prefer to sit in this too-small seat with the desktop cramping my thighs and examine the life around me. There are thirty-two in the class, which is launched every morning with the pledge of allegiance to the flag. My own allegiance, at the moment, is divided between Miss Mandible and Sue Ann Brownly, who sits across the aisle from me all day long and is, like Miss Mandible, a fool for love. Of the two I prefer, today, Sue Ann; although between eleven and eleven and a half (she refuses to reveal her exact age) she is clearly a woman, with a woman’s disguised aggression and a woman’s peculiar contradictions. Strangely neither she nor any of the other children seem to see any incongruity in my presence here.”
Donald Barthelme
poetamenos 