Amnesia/Amnesty

I knew a boy once, but he disappeared

one day he was white teethed smile biting

on half a stale bread, swimsuit and bare feet,

the next he was statistic, room tidied up

by a grieving mother, his obvious absence.

Once, looking at a school picture she wished

she had given him away. That was the pain

talking. She really wished for a body

to mourn, because him being alive was so…

that hope was like anti-freeze poisoning

killing so painfully, so slowly. Merciless.

Alone at night she could almost hear his knock at the door,

the lame excuse for being almost two year late for supper.

She wished, realistically speaking,

that a bullet had gotten to him

before the blunt knife to his scalp,

the ice axe to his kneecap,

the pliers to his healthy teeth.

Angrily, she cursed his image ­

­­­– the sepia toned portrait of a tanned boy

stepping on a decrepit soccer ball–

She had taught him to lie with a smile,

keep his head low, salute and shut up.

She taught him so well! She taught him

to kiss the flag when he wanted to burn it,

to praise the president, when he wished

to be the national revolution/traitor/martyr

She cursed his name, the name she chose

for him so carefully, so lovingly.

She wished he could have been mute

or even blind to the absence of people

living without fear. Once there was a boy

in that house, but he disappeared.

Fire

I prefer the fresh wind of an open window,

a quicker end, a body to put in the coffin.

I can remember what it felt like

when the fire was eating at me,

the smell of barbecue, the fear,

the scream stuck in my throat.

I remember the anguish, but the pain?

The pain is gone. The pain is a thing of the present.

Once I felt it, but not anymore.

It is my father’s eyes I think of

when I think of the pain, looking

at me in that picture. Was I five or four?

He knew I was something else

besides dolls and church and well behaved.

Now, the years having passed

I wish I could have put this fire down

before it consumed me, but I didn’t.

It was a harmless type of warmth and I

drank it like a good cup of java,

I liked the feeling of it warming my belly,

I liked the danger of it burning my thong.

I have learned (too late) that

fire is the enemy of our gender.

It burned us once in the bonfires

It burned us twice in factories

But it burns the strongest inside.

It burn as red as rage, as hot as passion,

relentless.

The brain is really a funny thing.

I remember the bows in my hair,

the pink dress, the smell of lavender

in my wrists,  the smell of

tobacco on your fingers,

but not much more.

The brain is a really funny thing.

I can still remember the fire, the fear,

The smell of frying meat,

but I really can’t remember how

or why

I let you burn me in your pyre.

It doesn’t really matter now.  The pain is gone.

I feel only the wind in my face,

the absence of your hands in my hands,

the freedom of forgetting. 

great South-American novel

I wanna
write
the
Great
American Novel, I do,
the problem is
I am not American
I am South-American
says my skin
says my voice
says my name,
even if my name was changed for me
(or did I change it myself?),
I am still not Die-Anna,
I am Djy-Ana, Diana Leite,
not Dianne L'itchy, as the gringos say.

The aliens call me in the streets
and I never answer instinctively
as I would if my Dad called me: "Dica",
Dica da Bahia,
singing Garota de Ipanema in
Português,
tanning in the beach,
swimming like a fish,
yet
here I am
in their land,
their territory
yet here I am,
the Alien is me,
the strange Stranger estranged,
the foreigner
trying to beat the gringos
at the Gringo's Game
so I let them call me
Die-Anna, Die-Anne,
Miss L' itchy, Miss Lie-Tea,
whatever they wanna,
as long as I keep on
beating the gringos
at the Gringo's Game.

Call for rain.

Call for rain.

There

is nothing

like a desert sunset,

all tones of red, pink and

yellow, the beauty

surrounded by

dryness,

the colors

of the

wind and a

vast emptiness

on the landscape, the only

sounds being that

of snakes and

lizards.

There

is really

nothing in the

desert for me besides

dryness, now my

body and soul

yearn

for more

fertile

lands, lands

filled with the same

rich green that fills my

mind with some

sort of hopeful

memory.

a skype love story

Fred reads the poem, Diana waits.

listen to questions...

tries to understand questions...

I get it, more or less.

Fred draws...

and draws...

and then we confess our profound, creative love <3

A poem with no rhymes

Almost Dead Ancestors 

I have been the eternal promise, yet

not once was I what had been promised. First,

I was supposed to be the spawn of evil

itself. Shame, evil never really matched

my skin tone. I used to believe in things

too: tooth fairy, rabbits that lay eggs, fat man

entering my house at night all dressed in red,

but there are things not even kids should know

about. True evil, a god that kills the sons

of disbelievers. It’s in the Bible, I read

it once, it’s hard to concentrate with all

the poison dripping from the skin thin rice

paper. I’d rather have it rolled, smoked in

to fun, but I don’t want lies blemishing

my lips. Later I was supposed to be

forgotten, but I kept on showing up,

despite everyone’s contempt. Last time I was

there, a cadaver was asleep, sheets of

the purest white, they fed and sang to him.

The corpse was me, somehow. My future? My

fears wrapped in disintegrating flesh?

I was the promise of insensibility,

yet I was shaking. Once I’d known that dead

man lying on a bed. He said he hated blacks. I’m

at least café-au-lait (don’t mind the blue-

green eyes). Back then I felt so far away,

an interstate apart from him, although

he was one palm away on the church bench.

The living corpse called my name, but I

had the same love for him I have for the

first maggot yet to eat my eyes. I guess

my passport straight to hell is really already

all stamped and signed. Was I supposed to be

the devil? I saw my reflection in

the mirror: I am missing a tail and

two horns. Oh well, I’m just the promise still.

Phobia

It all began with robbery. A dark,

smart, little punk showed me his gun. I froze.

Only I did not freeze enough.  To act

was probably a bad idea. He rose

the gun, and I began to move. The sharp

pain and the bang exciting me. ‘Suppose

it wasn’t my day to die. I look at him and smirk.

Adrenaline kicked in, my pressure rose

to a peak, and as if I were a star

from Rambo or Die Hard, I fought. Disposed

the gun from the punk’s hand. Then the park

got packed. The crowd saw the boy, broke nose,

blood in the pavement. When my blood cooled down

I found a starving child lying on the ground.

*

Rich kids of Salvador, me and my crowd,

walked in the streets that don’t belong to us.

They joked and laughed at the world around:

Poor houses, barefoot kids, crazy man that cursed

someone invisible. They pointed at

the children, bathing with an empty ice

cream pint. Isn’t it adorable? Their flat

stomachs showed me their hunger. That’s the price

we’ve got to pay for the indifference,

an ugly past with slavery, a huge debt

from times of colony and no advance

in the economy. My girl friends threat

to leave if I don’t stop the blabbering

The kids still bathe in sewage, smiling.

*

The car is going eighty miles. That and

the glass between me and the world should make

me feel secure. Still my hair stands on end,

dilated pupils, sweaty palms, the fake

impression that a gun, or knife can threat

my life at any moment. Panic is

inside me. Frozen, I observe the wet

streets, empty. No mass murderer in his

way to the bus, no robber selling gum

or cigarette packs at the stop light.  Despite

the lack of threat, my heart beats fast, crazed drum

inside my temple, and my throat is tight.

Yet rationally I know I must go on,

love, live, work unafraid. But the fear’s my home.

Fleeting Images from the Highway

A double sonnet dedicated to my valentine @joaofred, inspired by roads past and roads yet to be driven. It was really challenging to work the (imperfect) iambic pentameter, but I think I managed.

Fleeting Images from the Highway

I saw the now become the past. Look right,
look left, and you can see it too: dry land
sprinkled with rocks, an eagle taking flight,
dead snake dangling from its beak. Unmanned

gas stations, “closed” signs everywhere, adorn
the landscape. They’re a blur my brain tries to
compute, but memory, the treacherous whore,
is fleeting. Little lasts from it all. I knew,

when I left home, that I’d be left with few:
snapshots in instagram, a short blog post
I wrote in Tennessee, American Gods still
forgotten in the back seat, full of notes

— our plans and declarations of undying
love — I miss you, but I keep on driving.

*

I saw our plans become the present: Now!
Look left and you’ll see the house on the rock.
Just twelve miles ago we got in that stupid bout,
you want’d to see Niagara Falls, New York

but I wouldn’t let you. It isn’t in the book.
Landscapes of steel and woods became abstract
blurs, passing us by: running deer, dried brooks
and Neil’s soothin’ voice. I felt like Lisa Nowak,

mad, running after the ghost of a lover (minus
the adult diapers), but you were right there
mumbling about the prophecies of Nostradamus
on the death seat while we listen’d to Neverwhere.

I will hold tight to the good bits, the me-
mory of our road trip, when love began.

about deliriums and asking your friends first

Delírio precisa mudar
Delirium needs to change

Eu deveria ter pedido pra @haffa_elo antes de desistir. Procurei essa imagem pela internet inteira ontem, mas não sei se as pessoas dão a verdadeira importância a essa cena. Eu também não ia achar em português, que é uma versão mt legal.

I should have asked @haffa_elo before I quit looking. I searched for this image on the internet yesterday, but I don't think most people (even the hard-core Sandman fans) give the proper value to this scene. And even if I had found it online, I wouldn't have found it in Brazilian português, which is a very cool version.

Ninguém sabe como eu soube ontem o que é perder o significado da palavra, que rola na lingua e vira som. Só som.

Nobody know like I knew yesterday what is to lose the meaning of a word, that roles in the tongue and transmutes itself in sound. Just sound. 

Eu adoro essa tira por causa do sentido que ela faz. Delírio tem que perder o significado da palavra pra poder usá-la. Com sentido ela não pode mudar, mas quando a palavra passa a inexistir e só o som sobrevive, "mudar" vira um delírio, perde o significado, e então a palavra entra no reino dela, e ela percebe que tem que mudar.

I love this strip because of the sense it makes for me. Delírium has to lose the meaning of the word to be able to use its meaning. If the word "change" has a meaning, Delirium can't use it, she cannot understand it. If "change" makes sense, she cannot change, but when the word becomes inexistant and just the sound survives, "change" becomes a delirium, loses its meaning, and so, just like that, the word enters her helm and Delirium realizes she has to change.

Todos temos que mudar o tempo todo. Mudar é viver. Só quem morreu é lembrado como era, pela metade.

We all have to change all the time. To change is to live. Only the dead are remembered as they were, only half of their truth.

O que é abandonar a língua materna? Abandonar o português é parte de me negar? Não sei. Não sei.

What does it mean to abandon the mother tongue? Is abandoning Portuguese part of denying my own self? I don't know. I just don't know.

sobre palavras, delírios e o passado

repeat the same word over and over and it loses its meaning

Egypt
Egypt
Ejípit
Êjipt

Contrast
Contrast
Contrast
Cron...
Contas...
Cron...
Contrast

time periods
time periods
times periods
times...
time...
time...
time period
times periods
time period

buuuuuurial
buwwwwwwrial
bééééérial
bérial
burial
burial
burial

I repeat the same word over and over. Over and over. Over and over. The sounds changes. What was a saying again? I don't know. I forgot. The meaning was just there, but then it lost. I never felt foreigner. Am I foreign? I am living here for two year. I know the streets, I know the smells, I know the language. Do I know the language?

No.

I don't like to talk in english. I don't mind writing, though. I am always shy to open my mouth and have my tongue stumble inside it.

Deveria eu escrever em português?

Não.

I stumble, I will stumble and that's part of it. Everyday it gets a little better, but it's never enough.

I remember when I started reading in english. How old was I? But nothing taught me any more english than my mute books. The mutes taught me how to talk. And I talk.

After I quit trying to speak english like a native, like a Texan, things made me thing about the past.

2am: on D&D, Medieval Times, Twitter, etc...

My sleeping schedule is still crazy because of the summer break and because my classes are mostly late morning, early afternoon. I was writing a bit before I went to bed, drafting the first version of a essay due  Friday.

I was thinking about writing about "rituals" we do everyday and I cared for the idea and tried to make it bloom for a couple of days until I decided the theme sucks. Well, at least I didn't felt like trying to figure out what approach I wanted to take. I wrote about my newfound obsession with the Medieval times.

On another note, why do random people keep following me on twitter? I mean, its fine. Its not like I write something secret in my not so secret mini blog (do people still think of twitter as a mini-blog? because that doesn't sound right, does it? I would say its much more like a texting program, but cooler).

Going back to medieval times... I guess I'm addicted to it now. Playing the Sims Medieval (thanks @joaofred!), reading A Song of Ice and Fire (or the Game of Thrones books, as most know it), taking two classes about medieval literature and wanting to play D&D real bad.

I think I feel like playing D&D ever since I stopped playing when I was 13. Is it really that long? Its a latent desire, I guess... It's always been there, I just don't pay too much attention to it because I have other things to do and I do enjoy me some jokes at my role playing gamer boyfriend (who is way to old to be playing RPG... not. RPG is for ever)

Next thing I know I'm gonna be wearing chain-mail and drinking mead... Blerg

pé-de-pica

How to explain in english what is a pé-de-pica? The northeastern Brazilian portuguese allows for many creative expressions, slang, words and phrases that mean different things, according to context. Sometimes even the natives have communication issues amongst each other.

The complex word "pé-de-pica" is in itself the combination of 2 slang words that might have several meanings, with a simple conector between them.

The word pé means "foot" most of the time, both the anatomic part of our body and the measurement. But there are several second meaning for the word. The one utilized as part of the word "pé-de-pica" refers to trees. Yes, trees.

In northwestern slang, the word "pé" is used to refer to a tree of unknown name, specifying its type by referring to the fruit it bears. For example, a "pé-de-manga" refers to a "mangueira", tree that bears the mango fruit. (pé = tree; de = of; manga = mango). Pé-de-planta (tree of plant in english) refers to a generic tree.

Now the word "pica" is a unpolished slang used to refer to "penis" (equivalent to cock or dick in english)

But pé-de-pica, the combination of three words into another means an entirely different thing. It has nothing to duo with the bizarre metaphorical image of a tree that bears penises as fruits.

Pé-de-pica is a slang word (a rather funny word, instead of the offensive "pica", though not something appropriated for granny's ears either) that means "a big problem, likely to get out of hand" that is usually caused by human stupidity.

about lodged bullets

Today I told him I changed his life, that I made everything better, that I fixed all his problems, and I don't think that's true. At least, that's no the whole truth.

The truth is that he change my life, and now I feel like I was one of those chronic pain patients, the ones that have bullets lodged in their guts for years and years and all they can think about is pain, although the pain is so excruciating and so constant that they don't even know they are in pain any longer. They only find out once the bullet is removed, and everything is A-OK, because now you know, you finally know, that you are not in pain. And you know what's pain. So life is good. Nothing can bring you down.

That's what he did to me. He took my metaphorical bullet from my guts and now I'm not in pain anymore, although I didn't realized I was in pain, so much pain before.

So when I say to him "I changed your life, I solved all your problems", I'm really saying thank you, thanks for transforming my ragged existence into pure bliss.