Agora não se me dá dizer na
I feel like saying no

thing right


On board

you follow in your flashy, state-of-the-art and clearly extremely cool speedboat in pursuit of the wood-and-stick-and-rope-and-khadi fishing vessel that’s not leaving the port but entering, carrying the promise of plenty and the menace of disappointment but certainly the relief of arrival. the crew is an amalgam of little dots, and you jerk your mount forward intrigued by the faces you still can’t see and what they may reveal of the men’s spirits. as you cover the distance, you begin to see movement, then the indiscrete scene of a man taking a bucket shower right on the deck and in full view of the others. plus the boy walking the tightrope from the main boat to its little nephew being dragged behind across the water.

there’s playing going on, a kind of wavy violent play with wavy violent giggles. those not taking part are for the moment invisible, not for physics' but for inattentions' sake. approach and two elements enter the picture. one is affection, the second is revelation. notice though that though they notice your uncamouflaged gaze they still don’t attempt to camouflage their affection, instead flaunt it either with amusement, with challenge or passivity. camaraderie it seems to be, prerequisite for sanity on such a limited surface.

look up, if you can, from the jesters on the edge of deck, from the embracing babas and their uncles half way outside the boat, and see the vertical isolation of those perched on the mast. see how they place camaraderie on hold for the sake of introspection. or sleepiness or perhaps nostalgia. or not. then you overtake, your time is up, and rush for the pier.



all salute the departed 6
all mourn its nauseating homicide
all pray for a year not worse
all scrub and polish their memories
all bow and interlock fingers
in sweet reverent sweet remembrance
wishing all a good past year