sexta-feira, 18 de setembro de 2015

Três formas de história e cultura - Amiri Baraka

Eu penso no tempo
em que estarei tranquilo...
Quando as vaidades
e as paixões fúteis se consumirem,
e os meus olhos, minhas mãos
e minha mente
poderão enternecer...
Finalmente...
E as canções serão suaves
e flutuarão no ar...
Abraços com afeto!

Um comentário:

  1. THREE MODES OF HISTORY AND CULTURE

    Chalk mark sex of the nation, on walls we drummers
    know
    as cathedrals. Cathedra, in a churning meat milk.

    Women glide through looking for telephones. Maps
    weep
    and are mothers and their daughters listening to

    music teachers. From heavy beginnings. Plantations,
    learning
    America, as speech, and a common emptiness. Songs knocking

    inside old women's faces. Knocking through cardboard trunks.
    Trains
    leaning north, catching hellfire in windows, passing through

    the first ignoble cities of missouri, to illinois, and the panting
    Chicago.
    And then all ways, we go where flesh is cheap. Where factories

    sit open, burning the chiefs. Make your way! Up through fog and
    history
    Make your way, and swing the general, that it come flash open

    and spill the innards of that sweet thing we heard, and gave theory
    to.
    Breech, bridge, and reach, to where all talk is energy. And theres

    enough, for anything singular. All our lean prophets and rhythms.
    Entire
    we arrive and set up shacks, hole cards, Western hearts at the edge

    of saying. Thriving to balance the meanness of particular skies.
    Race
    of madmen and giants.

    Brick songs. Shoe Songs. Chants of open weariness.
    Knife wiggle early evenings of the wet mouth. Tongue
    dance midnight, any season shakes our house. Don't
    tear my clothes! To doubt the balance of misery

    ripping meat hug shuffle fuck. The Party of Insane
    Hope, I've come from there too. Where the dead told lies
    about clever social justice. Burning coffins voted
    and staggered through cold white streets listening
    to Willkie or Wallace or Dewey through the dead face
    of Lincoln. Come from there, and belched it out.

    I think about a time when I will be relaxed.
    When flames and non-specific passion wear themselves
    away. And my eyes and hands and mind can turn
    and soften, and my songs will be softer
    and lightly weight the air.

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