#mucambo

Menina bonita, felina é você Tua garra, tua manha, teu alçapão Um guia definitivo da vida pra quê? Um oásis de riscos para coleção

There is one street-light in the twenty mile stretch     violet      kryptonite. We are walking      three in a row      wax idols as earth melts to garnets. I am beat-boxing (no one would believe this)      the Bronx ubiquitous. The others are rapping      something by an emcee from São Paulo      dead the year before      the claim      suicide. The newspapers lie      dark victims abbreviated. Hemispheric history slithers through capillaries. We stop at Rodrigo’s house. The gate squeaks      a gaunt black chicken runs into the peony bed. The others peck discarded carcasses in piles. Their beaks      bronze. Overripe grapes are offered in a blue bowl. There is only hot water but it barely stings. He smirks      used to power awry. There is a debate on television. They will vote for a new president      once poor      a worker from the northeast. They’ll repair the roof. All else weak      subterranean termites swell. The road has become muddy. Our flip-flops sink      stick      the flesh in that ground rotten      stacked      easily mush. We stretch in the white room. Limber as octopi      wild      adulterous we have learned to kill with limbs. My Mets cap dangles on a hook. Our prayers      answered in violence.