terça-feira, 30 de novembro de 2010


That's the word. It comes

to me in a moment as my brother

waves his hands, eyebrow gymnastics

and Steven Hawkins soliloquy

stretching across the table.

We can predict the path

of human behavior, it all relates

to our past experiences

and patterns found in every day life...

he trails off, eyebrows landing soft

and hands ducking beneath the table.

The universes' mysteries, her habits

tangle in his brain,

unfurling in rare, precious moments.

Life is so big and so

small at the same time, and for that reason

I am thankful for a few shared months

gleaned from the universes' infinite,

swirling blue march, in a place

where toilets flush counter-

clockwise and mullets are popular

and steak sizzles over hot coals

at every street corner.

Some patterns do not repeat

except in memory

so we hold those memories close

to remind us of what was

and that, if we want,

we have the power to repeat them.

Your Band of Wisdom

The whole village lost power

and your stomach settled.

The old ladies who knew

nothing of cameras puzzled out

flash and zoom with me and David

while you recovered from food poisoning.

We lit candles, calling upon

magic and moonlight and papery

old woman fingers

to warm the blue kitchen. Tilcara

shines bright in my heart

as the place where darkness

felt most safe. The kindness

of others, strange yet familiar,

gave me hope. I am so glad

a picture exists of your wisdom

rising with the morning sun

to strum a guitar while we waited

for a bus and our next adventure.

sexta-feira, 19 de novembro de 2010


Hoje desejei ser uma batata na terra

me engordando no solo humedo

apertando minha barriga nas estrads das minhocas

Sinto os raices extender,

ondas eternas pelo mar marron.

O mar azul vira rosa no reflexo do por do sol

e eu volto a casa

com a chave prestada no pescoço

amarrada com uma fita a cor da areia

para no o perder

como aqui perco

partes do meu couro, minha casca.

A chave e uma coisa nova

como o visual das nuvens as 6.15 no Salvador,

como estos desejos recentes de virar verdura.

A chave abre a porta de dois amigos novos

nutrientes desse solo humedo nesse pais quente.

domingo, 14 de novembro de 2010

Mulheres no Recife

Perdimos o show de Cordell

na noite Recifensa, os tambores e sombrinos ecoando nas ruas.

A gente não sintiu falta porque

Kirancinho tocou um solo com um chapeu engolindo a cabeça

e Rafainha fez uma comida e balançaba na cozinha

e sentí literatura do nordeste pulsar no living

nos abraçando num espaço sagrado

de mulhers com pes sujas e barrigas satisfeitas.

Bastardizing Culture through Baking

Las salteñas son las mejores,

me dice Luana, se las sirven

con ají picante y la carne molida-

es un belleza. She kisses

the tips of her fingers and explodes

them into the air.

No, no, says Mauro, seguramente

a ella le va a encantar las de

Cordoba. Llevan una pasa de uva

y son dulcecitos. El azucar cristaliza

un poquito allí encima y te hacen

cosquillas a la lengua.

Once at a dinner party

I made empanadas

from honeyed black beans

and tomato and no one

said “these are good.”

The repulgue, lo que normalmente indica si sea

carne, queso y cebolla, pollo,

les mentiró como la gringa

sonriendo, diciendo por favor,

toma una empanada.

For the Argentines

I tried to feed that night

an empanada verdadera

does not stray from grandma's

recipe. I've learned from the grimaces

of colleagues and friends

that experimental cooking is mostly

accepted on college campuses where

Americans bang pots and pans together.

It's like God dumping grape

concentrate into freshwater

or Maradonna (also God) snorting

himself into a pudgy, cocaine oblivion.

Why ruin a perfectly good thing?

Sometimes creative culinary flair

shouldn't be shared with the traditionalists.

Wizard Whomping in the Alerces of Patagonia

Los Alerces son algunos

de los arboles más viejos

del mundo. Estiran

despacio hasta el cielo, nunca

tomando una decisión rapidamente.

Dejan que el mundo pasa y siguen

fortaleciéndoso, sus raices cavando

en el suelo.

Escucho a la voz

de Violeta Parra susurrando “El musgo

en las piedras, y si si si” hasta cuando

llegamos en el refugio, y el dueño,

Marcos, tocando la guitarra. ecoa

la espiritu triste de su vecina chilena.

Nosotras cuatro- dos ingelsas, una escoscesa

y una estado unidense, intentamos de repetir

la letra que el dueño del refugio nos enseña,

pero las palabras se clavan en la garganta

y salen todo torpe como de niño.

El alma del alerce, lo sentimos, pero no lo

somos, y admiramos la dexteridad del dueño

y el llanto de la guitarra saliendo hasta el viento

que pasa en las hojas de los arboles mayores

del mundo.

Un Techo Para Mi Pais

Mona covers her face when she laughs,

I presume, to hide her teeth

which reach out of her mouth

like hands on the walking dead.

Her thin frame is draped with scant clothing

and a child on each hip.

Her bun curls into the nape of her neck,

brown wisps flap about her cheeks.

We build her family a house

and not a very nice one, at that,

but nonetheless with windows

and walls and a solid floor.

She and her husband are younger than I.

Gaunt faces, deflated cherubs fallen

from the sky into this starved, trashed

forgotten villa, on the outskirts of Buenos Aires

where no one with breast implants or

a designer suit

will ever

see them.

Yacutinga Lodge

I followed a stray straw boy

north on a bus where he snored

all through Corrientes and Entre Rios.

His black and white striped shirt,

left geometric patterns on Atlantic

jungle blurred outside the window

and I marveled at the pallet

of all our true colors.

Solar panels sprout from his hands,

from his geometric core,

so the straw boy and his friends constructed

a panel plethora in the jungle.

I watched with Ana, the German grad

student, as the mathematicians

built metal castles in the mud.

On an early morning, the Guarani

steered us through a mostly clean

Iguassu river, and we picked up plastic milk bottles

and beer cans occasionally. They spoke

of an identity crisis among their people,

a loss of language and understanding of nature.

People drink powdered milk now,

says one of the Guarani,

The pretty pattern on the bottle attracts them

and technology says it's important

to get your calcium. I wonder if the plaid

metal of the solar panel

glistening hopefully in the sun

is really going to save us

or if we are fooling ourselves

into drinking powdered milk, too.

Casa Pasco

In the morning post-party

when sun warms sticky Malbec

splattered across couches where

Caro and Offrey debated politics,

I can't wait to get out and touch grass.

The noise of Saturday morning traffic,

much like Monday morning traffic,

is only somewhat blocked by the concrete

wall that surrounds the terrace.

The kitchen filled with beer bottles

and the sink filled with dishes

makes me anxious, and the coffee

percolates jittery on the smelly stove.

This is Casa Pasco, refuge for wayward

Europeans and a smattering of Americans

(norte y sur) smoking cigarettes

and barbecuing meat, preparing meals

laced with complacency, luring each other

with the pungency of cheese and gentle

waft of tomato sauce to stay, stay.

Riding Bikes

I got doored twice

wearing my cock-eyed helmet

y pedalando como una loca

en las calles porteñas.

I have been to Flores

and hasta el sur de Barracas

in leather boots

and linen pants.

Arrived 5 minutes early

for my 8AM class

on the war in Iraq

looking as if I, too,

were a soldier.

That city of narrow streetsOpções de postagem

with elegant French architecture dripping

into the cracked concrete.

Bike Extravaganza #1


Bike Extravaganza #2:


Bike Extravaganza #3:


Bike Extravaganza #4:



Siempre a la marcha

la payasa con raices.

Me habla de las madres

que tambien marchan

por la casa Rosa,

gritando para

la noche de los lapices

gritando para

los desaparecidos (presente)

gritando para

el derroto, por favor, de la

escuela de las americas

que sigue pulsando com un

ugly, American, wart.

Pero vos, mi Ileana,

nunca gritaste.

Sonreiste por todo

y compraste plantas para la casa

me invitó dibujar en las paredes

y jugabamos como niñas

que no conocen a Henry Kissinger.

sábado, 13 de novembro de 2010

SHARE conference

One broach

a hair bobble,

Flannel pants,

a fireworks dress with pockets

and a song from Lady Days gut.

English Professors with microphones

teaching English Professors with note-books.

I sweat under the lights, hope

enthusiasm and glasses

will convince them:

I am a good teacher.

I belong here.

First Half of the Share Conference:


Second Half of the Share Conference: