Faço questão de lembrar sempre os dois

Os dois 11 de Setembro

"self evident" by Ani DiFranco

(inspired by the WTC disaster)


us people are just poems 
we're 90% metaphor 
with a leanness of meaning 

approaching hyper-distillation 
and once upon a time 
we were 
moonshine 
rushing down the throat of a giraffe 
yes, rushing down the 
long hallway 
despite what the p.a. announcement says 
yes, rushing down 
the long stairs 
with the whiskey of eternity 
fermented and distilled 

to eighteen minutes 
burning down our throats 
down the hall 
down 
the stairs 
in a building so tall 
that it will always be there 
yes, 
it's part of a pair 
there on the bow of Noah's ark 
the most prestigious 
couple 
just kickin back parked 
against a perfectly blue sky 
on a 
morning beatific 
in its Indian summer breeze 
on the day that America 

fell to its knees 
after strutting around for a century 
without 
saying thank you 
or please 

and the shock was subsonic 
and the 
smoke was deafening 
between the setup and the punch line 
cuz we were all 
on time for work that day 
we all boarded that plane for it to fly 
and 
then while the fires were raging 
we all climbed up on the windowsill 
and 
then we all held hands 
and jumped into the sky 

and every borough 
looked up when it heard the first blast 
and then every dumb action movie was 
summarily surpassed 
and the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar 
looked 
more like war than anything I've seen so far 
so far 
so far 
so fierce 
and ingenious 
a poetic specter so far gone 
that every jackass newscaster 
was struck dumb and stumbling 
over 'oh my god' and 'this is unbelievable' 
and on and on 
and I'll tell you what, while we're at it 
you can keep the 
pentagon 
keep the propaganda 
keep each and every TV 
that's been 
trying to convince me 
to participate 
in some prep school punk's plan to 
perpetuate retribution 
perpetuate retribution 
even as the blue toxic 
smoke of our lesson in retribution 
is still hanging in the air 
and 
there's ash on our shoes 
and there's ash in our hair 
and there's a fine 
silt on every mantle 
from hell's kitchen to Brooklyn 
and the streets are 
full of stories 
sudden twists and near misses 
and soon every open bar is 
crammed to the rafters 
with tales of narrowly averted disasters 
and the 
whiskey is flowin 
like never before 
as all over the country 
folks 
just shake their heads 
and pour 

so here's a toast to all the folks 
who live in Palestine 
Afghanistan 
Iraq 
El Salvador 

here's a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation 

under the stone cold gaze of mt. Rushmore 
here's a toast to all 
those nurses and doctors 
who daily provide women with a choice 
who stand 
down a threat the size of Oklahoma City 
just to listen to a young woman's 
voice 

here's a toast to all the folks on death row right now 

awaiting the executioner's guillotine 
who are shackled there with dread 
and can only escape into their heads 
to find peace in the form of a dream 

cuz take away our playstations 
and we are a third world nation 

under the thumb of some blue blood royal son 
who stole the oval office 
and that phony election 
I mean 
it don't take a weatherman 
to look 
around and see the weather 
Jeb said he'd deliver Florida, folks 
and boy 
did he ever 

and we hold these truths to be self evident: 
#1 George 
W. Bush is not president 
#2 America is not a true democracy 
#3 the media 
is not fooling me 
cuz I am a poem heeding hyper-distillation 
I've got no 
room for a lie so verbose 
I'm looking out over my whole human family 
and 
I'm raising my glass in a toast 

here's to our last drink of fossil fuels 

let us vow to get off of this sauce 
shoo away the swarms of commuter 
planes 
and find that train ticket we lost 
cuz once upon a time the line 
followed the river 
and peeked into all the backyards 
and the laundry was 
waving 
the graffiti was teasing us 
from brick walls and bridges 
we 
were rolling over ridges 
through valleys 
under stars 
I dream of 
touring like Duke Ellington 
in my own railroad car 
I dream of waiting on 
the tall blonde wooden benches 
in a grand station aglow with grace 
and 
then standing out on the platform 
and feeling the air on my face 


give back the night its distant whistle 
give the darkness back its 
soul 
give the big oil companies the finger finally 
and relearn how to 
rock-n-roll 
yes, the lessons are all around us and a change is waiting there 

so it's time to pick through the rubble, clean the streets 
and clear the 
air 
get our government to pull its big dick out of the sand 
of someone 
else's desert 
put it back in its pants 
and quit the hypocritical chants 
of 
freedom forever 

cuz when one lone phone rang 
in two thousand 
and one 
at ten after nine 
on nine one one 
which is the number we all 
called 
when that lone phone rang right off the wall 
right off our desk 
and down the long hall 
down the long stairs 
in a building so tall 

that the whole world turned 
just to watch it fall 

and while 
we're at it 
remember the first time around? 
the bomb? 
the Ryder 
truck? 
the parking garage? 
the princess that didn't even feel the pea? 

remember joking around in our apartment on avenue D? 

can you imagine 
how many paper coffee cups would have to change their design 
following a 
fantastical reversal of the New York skyline?! 

it was a joke, of course 

it was a joke 
at the time 
and that was just a few years ago 
so 
let the record show 
that the FBI was all over that case 
that the plot 
was obvious and in everybody's face 
and scoping that scene 
religiously 

the CIA 
or is it KGB? 
committing countless crimes against humanity 

with this kind of eventuality 
as its excuse 
for abuse after 
expensive abuse 
and it didn't have a clue 
look, another window to see 
through 
way up here 
on the 104th floor 
look 
another key 

another door 
10% literal 
90% metaphor 
3000 some poems disguised 
as people 
on an almost too perfect day 
must be more than poems
in 
some asshole's passion play 
so now it's your job 
and it's my job 
to 
make it that way 
to make sure they didn't die in vain 
sshhhhhh.... 

baby listen 
hear the train? 

^

  Vientos del puebo pelos Inti-Illimani

(de Vítor Jara e Miguel Hernandes)

De nuevo quieren manchar

mi tierra con sangre obrera

los que hablan de libertad

y tienen las manos negras.

Los que quieren dividir

a la madre de sus hijos

y quieren reconstruir

la cruz que arrastrara Cristo.

Quieren ocultar la infamia

que legaron desde siglos,

pero el color de asesinos

no borrar?n de su cara.

Ya fueron miles y miles

los que entregaron su sangre

y en caudales generosos

multiplicaron los panes.

Ahora quiero vivir

junto a mi hijo y mi hermano

la primavera que todos

vamos construyendo a diario.

No me asusta la amenaza,

patrones de la miseria,

la estrella de la esperanza

continuar? siendo nuestra.

Vientos del pueblo me llaman,

vientos del pueblo me llevan,

me esparcen el coraz?n 

y me aventan la garganta.

As? cantar? el poeta

mientras el alma me suene

por los caminos del pueblo

desde ahora y para siempre.