Sunday, October 23, 2016


where pessoas live in the guts of the streets
the warm windows find you
they see through you

                                                         like memories which make you brew smiles and morning cerveja
like smoke tangents intersecting away from clouded tabaco shops
                                                         like swapping perspectives worth potable intemporal souvenirs

lit intendente. hangover lisboa.
i switched my tv on last night
it is still warming up
reality show mechanic ballot tube
           spin roulette and same hands?
a poem is waiting to connect the next world to you
it's the reason the staircase that separates you from it
leads nowhere
 breathers behind lego globules of born again architecture
hear on radio each morning about the great 1755 earthquake
they plaster preservation and orgulho over birthrights to panic

less bicycles to suffer
plying more slopes, so
more tuk tuks sample
more tourist shoulders to count
more cranes hoisting lamps, laundry
under chin of castle with more trees
does that mean less oxygen? 

maybe the next toddling bus
chances on the theater of the barren sun
maybe they read between the lines of street graffiti
maybe they find some color
we polish over the grey

the kinglives elsewhere

                                       just a few trinkets of history growing in your modern brow
that swell to stardust kisses and old boon of moon
                                                                          next visit i'll welcome more of your green into my days
and judge not the tireless mad hearts
                                         who make                         you         so         awkward and cool! 

                                                                                                                      write(c)2016 kwame aidoo  

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