Joca

My grandpa Joca killed himself
Nobody ever called him Joca but I have this fantasy I’ll name my kid João Carlos
And call him Joca
He had one extra tooth and also the same cyst I have at the end of my buttcrack
Apparently he was schizophrenic but it was the seventies so who really knows
Apparently he was handsome and liked to play volleyball

He took a shot to his temple
People say it’s a dumb way to kill oneself and it may not work
But he totally did die that way

What was he thinking, the poor man?
“the world is crumbling around me
I’ll lose my baby girl”

Suicidal people are the only ones that think I’d rather die and mean it
I’d rather die, I’d rather die
I’d rather die, I’d rather die
but then they don’t mean anything
because they are now dead.

Yet

I’m made of such smallness
yet I know of such
greatness

I know what it is
to have flames coming out of my fingers to light their bonfires.
I’m the in-between
tenderly becoming nothing.

I’m so small I kick and fight
I’m disappearing
I’m not disappearing,
I disappeared
And NO ONE’S watching
And I’m emptiness
And being such emptiness
Is so fucking lonely
I want to die
And from my non existence
will rise their togetherness.

I bathe in truth
and love
and unity
I am that small: all of
the beauty does not fit
into me

I give myself a headache
Emptiness feels pain
Emptiness cannot feel no pain.

I got married to fifty people last month
Yet I’m bummed
Bummed the prettiness and the tininess
did not come home with me
tonight
(though we are but one and the same)
nor they ever will

How tiny is that?
I am made of pure truth
I’m so fucking

lonely.

bloody hands

i wanna run as fast as I can to the corner of my mind where i built a shrine of you

your body parts, I mean
your single dimple
your hair color
the humidity in your eyes
your curly lashes
and arms
and also your BLOODY HANDS
and scratch it all until I bleed
and you bleed
and our bloods turn into one sticky mess of pain,
you fucking bitch.

mirror dust

every single tiny pain
or loss
every single one of them
a scratch
a cracking toe joint
a thimble
an earring

(dust of mirrors
made from the same matter
it’s all matter)

every. single. one. of them.
resounds in advance and delay
repeats and foretells
the bigger ones.

Idea for a poem about the 52-hertz whale

gotta write a song about the 52-hertz whale

she calls and calls and calls
and nobody can possibly hear
i complain about not being heard
because there’s too much noise, too much of too much
and yet

other beings are physically able to hear me
so, theoretically, im not that lonely
but she

she is perfectly alone
she is made of emptiness
the loneliest and biggest packet of emptiness in the planet.