Wednesday, April 22, 2009

"Between The Gutter And The Stars, People Are What People Are" -K. Friedman

Sao Paulo, 3 a.m., maybe 5--

I'm at that point again. The point where the beers can't do a god-damned thing. I wish they could obliterate my memory, knock me out and put me to bed. But I'm still disastrously awake, sitting at the desk in my motel room. The lights are off, and I am writing in the dark. I tell myself that maybe that last sentence carries weight. Stupid to think such a thing right now. Just write.
I peer out the window upon graffiti walls of exposed concrete. A few heads milling about and some cars driving slow. Somebody told me the transvestites walk this street.
I wipe the sweat off my brow and rub it into my hair. I ring out my eyes. Maybe one more beer will do the trick? I turn to fish one from the ice in the sink. The ice has melted. So has Camila in the bed. Camila. Camila. I like to say the name. I say it aloud this time, "Camila!" She wakes up briefly and spouts something hostile towards me in Portuguese, then melts again. Camila.
I met her this evening at the reading in Madalena. She approached me shortly after I read and told me that my poetry was vile and it disgusted her. I told her I agreed, that it disgusted me too, and that I hate myself most of the time, so I'll buy us a round to celebrate our honesty and disgust...
Now my disgust sleeps there in that bed, wrapped up in my sheets, in my sweat, even a little bit of blood, and she is about to become another one of those poems. Somebody out there loves Camila.


  1. This is my favorite post to date.
    "The ice has melted. So has Camila in the bed."

    I also love the idea of "buying a round to celebrate our honesty and disgust...".

    So wonderful.

  2. Sara--thanks for the comments and feedback. It helps. Now draw me a picture