Copenhagen silences

Copenhagen silences

Descending we pass through two layers of impenetrable cloud, at one point we are completely embraced by these two, white above and white below.


Two humans in huge bodies sit down beside me, I feel a chock wave from their energy, imagine their past lives as mighty warriors, I need to translate their behavior if I want to survive.

Don’t recognize my voice and the brusk sounds it makes when I speak.

Wear two pairs of socks, boots, two pairs of pants, two tops, a polar and ski jacket and bike to the bridge, try not to remember too vividly the bright sun sparkles in blue waters; the sky has a lid on it.

I was pushed closely up against other people’s bodies in the metro in Rio everyday, never alone, it was never ever quiet, but Copenhagen feels mind numbingly intimidating: Everyone are too close to me, unsafely so. People are so different.

I’m sinking into a soft pillow of peace, dreamy absence, so tired, my body wakes me just before dawn so I can hear the birds from the balcony – a tiny light in the sky, a little hole in the clouds, etheric beauty.

Put my ear to the ground and hear the unmistakeable deep trembling noise of peace rolling towards me: a tsunami wave, ready to absorb me. I stare wide eyed into empty air, then close them, and listen.


Bald Poetry and a Beat Root Passport

Bald Poetry and a Beat Root Passport

I dream of Ariel. His ears cut off, van Gogh wasn’t crazy either. He smiles. I reach for freedom, for a razor, and carefully slice off my left ear. I stay with it in my hand, looking at it, my cut off ear, overtaken by doubt, should I sew it back on, if I don’t what does it mean.

I wake up in the middle of my dilemma. Morning shower, my razor in the bathroom. I shave a little piece of my head and marvel at the sensation, pass Karité to protect my newborn skin. I look weird, I look beautiful.

A kiss on my naked head, never felt anything like it!

**My last post received over 180 visitors and 280 views, I never had this kind of traffic before! I can only take it as a clear sign that I ought to pursue a career as a bald poet**

… This Sunday I am going to use my European beetroot colored passport to return to Gringolândia (well, most likely that is, because lately few things are very predictable).

I am looking forward to soy lattes and to the gentle spirit of the people, the softness of the peace which seeps out of the walls. The peace which silently suffocates the outrageous, disturbing pulse of the life that beats in everything, beats inside me stronger now, after two therapeutic months cuddled at the chest of Brazil.

Rio is pulse; pumping out chaos, color, creativity, sex, celebration, violence and beauty, beauty, beauty.

”There are a lot of things which could be a lot better in Rio, but it has a really good magic”

Magic. That’s what I feel. And I am aware that I am experiencing Rio from the point of view of my European passport privilege, a ticket to a life with a kind of freedom which means not ever having to seriously worry about violence, visas, or money to pay for health care.

Its a comfort privilege, its separation too. I live in a fenced off condomínio, Fortress Europe. It is a wealth which doesn’t show up on my bank account.

I am not leaving with a crushed heart this time, but with a suffocating feeling in my chest from the expantion created by having so much love compressed into tiny chambers, knowing that I am of this too: it is inside me.

And I can come back.

Still… I sit blank-faced looking at Avia’s page booking my connecting flight out of here, scanning my mind for another option…



I cut it short
I cut it off, my razor stuck in the waves
I didn’t plan it.
skin I never saw
under my hair

I shed from axiety, my hair, I always had.

Under my hair our skin is the same
my skin is the same as anybody else’s
I’m human
I want to press myself against him and whisper it
”I’m human”