sábado, 4 de dezembro de 2010

To remind themselves they can't have fucked up too much

Heaven LLC invites up the regulars

who play every Monday

at Rio's Pedra de Sa.

These no-name musicians whose sweaty

fans swaddle them like glistening orbs

climb the stone steps laid by slaves

God grabs them by their sound waves

The guitar pluck sweeps the slaves'

chin up; the Angolera whose ancestors

set the stone where masters shackled and sold her.

Her spirit remains in this sacred place

of lost and found, the ground where

life and death swirl in the saudade stew.

Her children play music

baked to perfection

in the convection oven

of a summer favela day.

The crowd molds into amber over hot

coals, a fluid samba of new and old.

I have goosebumps and God,

despite mythical WMDs and tipping points,

taps her feet.

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