IN[E]S MOR[A]O DIAS

CHRONICLE

I get ready for
grasping at straws
and becoming my own master as
maria theresa horta said
in a booklet that
was hard for me to read at a glance só
little the distance of the migrating love and
other how comes that
make me shiver of mourning
and confessionalism
mea-culpa
these lines are exactly that
flamboyance of paced air
to give use to
the expenditure of energy that
anyway
happens
it is the only interest
I don’t know what policies could
regulat the temporal
dephasing
evident between the thunder and lighting
of what I notice
and don’t
and if this page is white it can at least
grab this dyslexia of behavior
for example today I went to a
dance class that
asides from making me crave
knowing to film because I really saw each
vertebra being a cut of
film and around
the silence of communion
to the precise instructions of the delicate support to each
member and
being
having the density of
suspended time
it also gave me the confirmation that mov
ing the body is
all
to drink a tea

perhaps also
but after: to walk a long street
dripping rain
to arrive at the necessity of dining
of knowing the need of dining
of knowing x and y through different means
of communication
it was just nonsense
I don’t need to bury myself into sand
and speak with a hat to the flowers about
an old marriage
to be absurd
I only need to insist in having a dialogue
among the deaf within
this thing inside me
because I didn’t memorize any choreography
asides from the pleasure of the steps and the
anonimity of
humans who dance
fauvist
on the seventh floor?
the conclusions I definatly
built while they unfold me
the ruminating
of the morning at the hairdressser
seemed so shiny and
serene
dealing with life, having a schedule, having
a spine from what is said to what is
unsaid
and saying grace to the colors of the
fabrics that touched the
houses I lived in
the cities I drank
and the intimate talent I
cherish of drawing a world in
which the meaning of a word
archived under metabolism
can be the cousin of a hand that smiles on a given
day under a bit
of a human internal
philosophi
and remembering this or that and
a proper language to engange the softest
curling of the lips
the most refined talent to offer
a prize
and strength
I ended up drinking a tea
whose etiquette says in Spanish
alegria de vivir
reminding me of the morning logistics as
a dim mist behind the foggy glasses
in april
I am in awe, tasting the
unfolding of an action of a single day without

labor:
with smooth massage, I meet a
lady called laurinda,
thirsting and willing for
spread out arms and
now I remember the origin of the word
melancholy being bile, a black mass
tomorrow I’ll check the book I deem
having read it
and after I’ll tell you.