Diego

I

Around now

and here there's no princess

Micomicona, no Sancho

either just me and his name's

stuffing

{the humid tedious of modern life, so daunting into a tilt of nothings worthwhile bothering when not flushing it}

How come I

knew Diego's

- news?

was that his real name, his

real postulate of life's conjectures

skipping through unknown

fingers, female

at home

- absent

the scent of

practicing the read

the fingers' read

verbalizing the

frustration

of pages

turning into

scars, yellow

somehow

pee, people, portable

nightmares

brushing the inside

of any

similarities

between him and the personage of Cervantes;

were there?

{yes, both spoke Castilian and drunk stories and surely wine}

II

There was no princess Micomicona alluring his steep nights, no Sancho with two bicycles waiting downstairs, while leaning against the warmth breath of an hot Adis-Abeba junction, falling like a monument to blandness;

there was a woman, though {no cooking}

my friend drunk

all the time even when

busy with his private

Spanish gatherings

indifferent to appearances

moved by one

or more enigmatic causes, passionate with life, at times eccentric, always wearing

a beard and glasses

ready to clash with

would I recognize him in his underwear hanging from his 2nd floor neighbor's balcony, ready for dispatch or rescue in-between a Mondays to Wednesdays Pandora's box love and a rest-of-the-week Amstel integration tour?

I met him through his woman, so he became my friend.

Last time I saw her, Oporto airport, she was walking another guy, kinda of a weird situation, you know. She told me Diego was dead.

{I could hear the uplands blood circulating in the background of his veins coding the years and distance gone by into minutes of tempered silence,

never said}

Expressed sympathy

for Diego, the one, temporary

as sadness and

memory and

love.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

My Sand House (an answer to Pablo)

My Sand House

(an answer to Pablo)

Also I

want a sand house

a place to listen to

the sea

to feel the living matter breathing up

new forms

everyday

a new element

one that can be adopted into the

planetary scale of our

dreams

forged with salt, water and microscopic love

one that could be the reason for

eternal renewal

of language in communication

of awe in belief

of being what we ought to be

today, tomorrow

just a simple house where I can

hear the raging ocean's speech on

evolution, shining

from within silica tithes on our walls

our ancestors genetic scales

rooting into my

skin, softly

pending from the dark sky

as stars do each time, night after night without knowing so

we believe.

But then, where would you be?

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Nesse Tejo

Nesse Tejo

és Miriam

quando regressas ao interior

de ti

tágide, serena

indomável exilada

tu

contemplas a euforia dolente

patologia intratável dos

cacilheiros

morrendo nas praias quimeras

num maquinal parir

salobro

dia-a-dia

a ti

os olhares nados

dos homens e mulheres que

te atravessam

soçobram

melancolias roxas, indizíveis

lacunas de alma

alheias

ao espaço e ao

tempo

que.

Desnudado

o cabelo, em tons de oliva

espraias-te na espuma

dócil do pensamento

que renasce do

contorno de cada colina

e

ancorada

nesse deleite

sem pressa, sem

simplesmente evocando

o fluxo lunar

das águas

regresssas ao abismo

de ti.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Sud Express

Sud Express

What's the matter with trains?

Is there a disposable vertigo swirling inside one's veins, is there?

Anything as cocoon's threads weaving a helmet around one's head?

A way out, an emergency exit, please, just in case you freak out before arrival at some safe place and I'm bemusedly absent, scratching my own groin and

by the time Gare d'Austerlitz leaks out of the frenzied view, I could be exploring the sweetness of your eyes, tongue in tongue, persuading flavors to reprogram my sensory papillae, exquisitely bathing the inner landscape of your thighs with the sound of skin addicted kisses and the rumor of balsa tree leaves, waving, outside

at me, through the mat glass.

So, what's the matter with me? Have I spun the memory all too fast, the memory traveling inside that train?

Awkwardly speaking, shall I check Thomas Cook one more time?

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Em Banho Maria

A minha caneta, hoje

não escreve, derrapa

nas aliterações da minha respiração

conturbada pelo vício de esperar

flores, pétalas, azimutes soalheiros

        - não irias perceber o sentido destas sépalas!

pedúncala, à deriva, no leito de um novo rio

engelhado pela ausência

de      tempo,

de               foz,

de                  água.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

It's Not About the View

There's not much to tell about the view.

Though nature had featured its best impressions upon that side of the hill, scattering chest- and walnuts along side with beeches and ash trees, it's not the view that would catch one's attention, I hope, but the starkness left hovering over that decaying terrace, on the backside of the house.

The roughness of the cracked pillars, standing alone, missing the warmth of an hand, the envy of an eye, was smoothed by the sweetness of the arcs connecting them.

Imagine under what circumstances people have roamed there in search for the view to appease their yearning for some or more love, happiness, understanding, surely health too

imagine the gatherings held under honeysuckled dusking skies, voices laughing to the rhythm of crickets, wine, lots of wine pointing up to the stars, joining spirits in a blended white diaphanous moon

imagine the kisses and whispered sillinesses, the bodies, the language of tender pressures smudged against the solidity of the columns

imagine how often they have stood behind a window, watching, gazing at a storm's rage plundering the heart of the stone

And now

you realize all that is gone and this time

was not about you.

                       yet

You were just an observer.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

3 to 4 minutes

3 to 4 minutes

water, intermittent rain

moisture-laden mists licked

with the tip

at first light, the sun

milk-nurturing drops inspired

by nature's breasts

continues

sipping the smallest shoots' sap

devouring landscape's tendrils with

vitality, if

necessary

boil before mixing to

bring out its

supreme, finest

flavor.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

as palavras

as palavras

fecundam para lá da distância

que os olhos alcançam

rasgando núbis, nectarinas à flor da pele

em permanente busca

numa ânsia de verdes

lábios em taças, saboreando

verdades

líquidas, as palavras

esacapam-se-nos entre o significado das

coisas que vertemos quando

falamos

ou calamos

tanto entre tanto que

dizemos.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Singularidades

Singularidades

A lembrança da vida no momento em que pisamos o limiar da irreversibilidade, naquele patamar onde, de repente, tudo é a sério, sem respostas, sem tempo para questões-pós ou subtilezas afins

dilatada, desfeita, diluída

desaguando na omnipresente esperança de tudo

será, talvez, a última.

.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Caligrafias de espaços

Crescem em mim

caligrafias de espaços por entre;

como as palavras que dizemos

sempre aquém de uma

dilecta autonomia

adiada

despertam-se-me

as tentações mais soterradas

por anos de anuimento

infalíveis na hora de

agir

as dialéticas da natureza

apesar de arrebatadoras

não se leêm...

estampadas,

permanecem disponíveis

gravadas, no gelo dos tempos

agitam-se-me

montanhas, algures nos

hiatos do meu conhecimento

enferrujado

com ganas de ferro e aço

e zeramentos a acenar

nos ciprestes

mais altos

Transpiro e à medida que escrevo

a mesa vibra e retine, ou será apenas o efeito

da senhora que passou, decidia e inconveniente;

despeço-me, tenho medo!

Pago o café e ausento-me;

talvez junto ao rio

tudo esteja mais calmo.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Vicious Thoughts

Vicious Thoughts

Wondering about

how?

I've sniffed your essence

into my brainiac system

allowing blowflies to pick

whatever misshapen lexicon

piece, of my

undermined with translation

language outcrop

and make it into

this.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Geometry Lesson

Geometry Lesson

I am so happy with

squares

squared sides

facing each other

the only problem, if any

is the relation between all those line

segments, cornering their

content, to the extreme

of form

Quite the contrary

circles

leave me

bored with their

double sided

side

Moving inside a square

can be painful

before you get used to all those

departures

Addiction comes inevitably

setting you up

to believe

the world follows the same pattern

on & on

When getting the chance

to travel

inside a circle, one

gets the illusion

of sliding a free way with

one restriction:

not letting go off the girth

Lines are still a matter of investigation and

I'm afraid

due to their nature

there's no forecast in sight

to an happy

End.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

The Big Oak

The Big Oak

The horizon is getting deadly wider. Monday afternoon, the music plays.

People are outside, some watching, other doing it. They all seem focused and happy with the idea of cutting down these trees.

There is a collective feeling of duty being achieved with the fall of the big oak. As if their wives, on return home, would sheer them up on the accomplished task, were they not there, too!

fantasizing

From the attic, I listen to the sound of a tractor, a chainsaw and a machete. They all seem to call on the valley together. Gets difficult to concentrate on the Fall's Allegro, while years of geometric recording are being ignominiously reduced to sawdust

very fast

the remnants are whittled to the proper size and shared between neighbours, as harvested grapes.

But I

want my birds back, I want the whispering silhouette of her canopy joining me by the full moon. Who shall now prevent the morning fog from escaping too soon or the sun from falling harsh on the walls and walks.

, a cricket's breeze blowing sets the end

The four seasons are over

the chainsaw goes on

and on

and on

and

on

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Time & Space Optimization

Time & Space Optimization

Everything he did, thought or planned

was minutely written down

converted into knowledge

of how he spent

his time

and space

gathered in maps

designed to find anything

with ease, tolerating content

shifting, aiming at optimization

of both.

Daily life & death

coming closer to drink

the reflex that may unify them

found him in his armchair

a blanched emptied

soul

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Premonição

Antevejo a loucura

acima da média, neste preciso

momento

em que me esgueiro

pela frincha

do teu

esquecimento

já não sou

nem cá nem lá

mais do que

gotas de suor salgando

a superfície de

lágrimas

minhas

ou

tuas?

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho