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Brazil 1848, An Autobiography

Brazil 1848, An Autobiography
By sonataincminor on 02/02/2006
Viewed: 926
Reviews: 11

Alice, she said, 'Ay-lee'-za',
perfect legs, heels and dress to match.
Incessant suggestive dance to
a brawking stereo scratching
vaquerios cawling.
honey strands, Brazilian brown eyes
and scratchy 70's song lyric English.
My gift for the evening from my hosts.

Quarenta Oito

How did I not know?
Laughter ripples through my thoughts,
how did I wind up here?
When did I completely lose
(or give up) my choices,
to be where I never thought to be?
I Know. I don't know. Naive. I laugh.
What do I do now?

Expectations in a gift meet
poet without boundaries...


Fast moving feet accentuate
a skirt too short for mini,
perfect make up on a face
that perfectly needs none.
Is Portuguese a language of love?
In her voice, it could be.

Quarenta Oito

I know what men dream.
I dream the same.
I know.
Crossing paths across
eight thousand miles and three hundred Reals
on a rainy Tuesday night.
There is no walk under
upside-down Orion or
Saturn at opposition.
No chance to romance.
I laugh. None needed. I know.


Ah, how did she come here, and why-
I know. I know.
Here, what's plentiful is poverty
and she glows, deeper than the shimmering oils.
Well dressed, gorgeously healthy,
film star white smile,
bangles dangle everywhere.
A place to live, to be, a family
of girls, mothering madam who provides and profits.
A future, barring ill fortune.
Money for school, for escape,
everything for a chance -
and who among us can say more?

Quarenta Oito

None would know.
No promises to keep.
Nobody with the right to deny
or claim to care.
I know. I will know.
I close my eyes and accept.
Sigh deeply and accept.
I cannot modify this world tonight,
nor alter this small part of it.
Rain falls outside, I cannot change it.
Cannot, in the space of circumstances,
mitigate this profession.


Of all that she is, pretty
suits best. Pretty, in that
way of youth, unfazed, unjaded
by not enough time
or too desperate circumstances.
She is pretty, vital, sexy,
and it's been
such a long time, and my life
a poverty of passion,
and -

Quarenta Oito

I laugh again at who I am
and being here,
seek values I do not claim
and cannot find.
Look for reasons I neither
have nor want.
A gift from the warm heart of hosts
I cannot disappoint.
A gift, expectant herself, anxious
to complete a task, receive a tip
from a wealthy American.
I know. I laugh. I know.
A gift, mine to do with what I will,
for an evening.


In a darkened room
accompanied by the vaquerios bawling
and a wheezing air conditioner,
sets a bed, a nightstand,
and nothing else.
But her. Alice. Ay-lee'-za.
shining in the dark.
And we have no words in common
but "sim", "obrigado", "Twist and Shout".

Quarenta Oito

I know. I know.
Neither by spirit or form
can I penetrate a woman-child,
some father's daughter
between my own daughter's ages.
And I cannot, will not,
disappoint my hosts or my gift.
I know. I laugh. I know.


Taught and trained to please,
to acquiesce,
to yield,
she kneels before me
as I indulge myself,
brushing her hair.
She lay before me
as I indulge myself,
rubbing her feet.

Quarenta Oito

Two am, Three am.
They're all slapping backs and
clapping hands,
winking and laughing and bragging
while every girl they were with
dances with seductive smiles
as if their evening had just begun.

All but one.

They stop their
mutual macho cheering
and look at me
with something akin to awe.
I know. I laugh.
For there on the sanctuary of my shoulder,
tresses glowing, barefoot,
lies a young girl -

soundly sleeping.

© By sonataincminor On 2/2/2006 1:51:05 PM
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