Of what is not here, but is present.
After having lost those verses we took in hand but lost the key: the endless pit. The construction from the beginning. The outline. The effort. The smile on your face for the copy. But they are cups and glasses in half. Pushcart. Bodies that carry matter. Affection in the hand of your children. He still remembers all the materials. The strong beam. Heading north. Death for life. It is ironic to hammer on these nails and sometimes miss them and hit the fingers. They point. That quicksand that sucks the hourglass. "Do you know, brother, where that place is?" - take the first left and you will find it. Just be careful when crossing. The traffic light, the birds; they are passage. Watch for signs. Unload the gravel. Cover the lunch box. The Bricks. The taste of metal. The sieve does not prevent the sun's rays from passing through. It is the first time that the work is done by a column of words coming from the
Wind.
The House,
homeless.
The base,
affection.
Window,
open
Poetry to fill a slab,
or tear down the wall you can't see?
.jpg)
We don't open on Sundays (or about the potential to be key). 2019. Mixed technique on siding found.
For everything! 2019. Mixed technique on siding found.
_edited.jpg)
After the storm. 2019. Oil on metal
Who promised to stay here forever? 2019. Oil on metal
Procession. 2019. Oil on metal
And the bitter taste of coffee reminds us of how sweet life is. 2020. Oil on metal
I already went. 2020. Mixed technique on cabinet door
Mondays were now Friday. 2020. Mixed technique on cabinet door
For possible quilts. 2020. Oil on fabric
Giramundo. 2020. Mixed technique on tile.
There was no clock to wake up, or even a simple rooster that announced, like a foreshadowing, that a spark of red or even orange spreads across the sky on the horizon of that place. Zeca had left us.
I met her passing through the chapel—resting on her swollen legs; with a bag of something she stuck to, which she said made very good tea for the joints. He picked up his bag, looked inside the sso Miltinho, that when people are buried they are not
Works
There was no clock to wake up, or even a simple rooster that announced, like a foreshadowing, that a spark of red or even orange spreads across the sky on the horizon of that place. Zeca had left us.
I met her passing through the chapel—resting on her swollen legs; with a bag of something she stuck to, which she said made very good tea for the joints. He picked up his bag, looked into the chapel, and said, “Do you know why the deceased is never buried on his back, my thread? When we see someone face down, we see ourselves and we see ourselves in the center of the spine... And that is why Miltinho, when people are buried, they are not placed face down”.
I started to connect the dots. At night a rooster crowed.