the man with the beautiful eyes

when we were kids
there was a strange house
all the shades were
always
drawn
and we never heard voices
in there
and the yard was full of
bamboo
and we liked to play in
the bamboo
pretend we were
Tarzan
(although there was no
Jane).
and there was a
fish pond
a large one
full of the
fattest goldfish
you ever saw
and they were
tame.
they came to the
surface of the water
and took pieces of
bread
from our hands.
our parents had
told us:
"never go near that
house."
so, of course,
we went.
we wondered if anybody
lived there.
weeks went by and we
never saw
anybody.
then one day
we heard
a voice
from the house
"YOU GOD DAMNED
WHORE!"
it was a man's
voice.
then the screen
door
of the house was
flung open
and the man
walked
out.
he was holding a
fifth of whiskey
in his right
hand.
he was about
30.
he had a cigar
in his
mouth,
needed a
shave.
his hair was wild and
uncombed
and he was
barefoot
in undershirt
and pants.
but his eyes
were
bright.
they blazed
with
brightness
and he said,
"hey, little
gentlemen,
having a good
time, I
hope?"
then he gave a
little laugh
and walked
back into the
house.
we left,
went back to my
parents' yard
and thought
about it.
our parents,
we decided,
had wanted us
to stay away
from there
because they
never wanted us
to see a man
like
that,
a strong natural
man
with
beautiful
eyes.
our parents
were ashamed
that they were
not
like that
man,
that's why they
wanted us
to stay
away.
but
we went back
to that house
and the bamboo
and the tame
goldfish.
we went back
many times
for many
weeks
but we never
saw
or heard
the man
again.
the shades were
down
as always
and it was
quiet.
then one day
as we came back from
school
we saw the
house.
it had burned
down,
there was nothing
left,
just a smoldering
twisted black
foundation
and we went to
the fish pond
and there was
no water
in it
and the fat
orange goldfish
were dead
there,
drying out.
we went back to
my parents' yard
and talked about
it
and decided that
our parents had
burned their
house down,
had killed
them
had killed the
goldfish
because it was
all too
beautiful,
even the bamboo
forest had
burned.
they had been
afraid of
the man with the
beautiful
eyes.
and
we were afraid
then
that
all throughout our lives
things like that
would
happen,
that nobody
wanted
anybody
to be
strong and
beautiful
like that,
that
others would never
allow it,
and that
many people
would have to
die.

A vida média

Hoje somos servidos fartamente através dos meios com nesgas de vidas falsas. Todos são bonitos, todos são inteligentes, todos são competentes. Eu não lembro a ultima vez que ouvi alguém dizer “eu não sei nada a respeito disso”. Todos têm opinião. Só vemos vidas maxi. Coisas comuns não vendem, não dão receitas, são reais demais. E de realidade já basta a vida. Até o “real demais” já foi escancarado. Tá sobrando circo por aí. Mas não o circo do palhaço Cabeçada. Os palhaços estão na platéia. Haja estômago.

É muito mais fácil ligar a TV e se desligar. Falta a vida média, a real. Falta um pouco de Bukowski no ar. Falta embriaguez e ressaca. Prostitutas. Apostar em cavalos. Falta de dinheiro. Camisa suja. Doenças venéreas. Cigarros, charutos. Drogas. Falta dormir no balcão do bar. Dormir no banco da praça. Dormir na casa de uma mulher que não se conhece. Filosofar com um bêbado desconhecido num boteco. Beber cerveja quente. Tomar café frio. Curar ressaca com um trago. Trepar na rua. Acordar no meio da tarde. Acordar de madrugada. Sair às três. Sair com três. Falta cabelo sujo. Pente de plástico. Cama de motel barato. Ser expulso por não pagar. Pagar pra quem não conhece. Dizer “eu tô comendo outra”. Perder o emprego. Mentir pro chefe. Mentir pra mulher. Mentir. Falta se olhar no espelho e não gostar. Se olhar no espelho e não estar nem aí. Cadeiras de plástico. Colcha barata. Cerveja quente dormida no copo. Comer a gordinha. Falta gozar, olhar pro lado e pensar “tá, agora vai embora...”. Falta gozar, olhar pro lado e ouvir “tá, gatinho é tantos reais.”. Olheiras no trabalho. Meias furadas. Sapatos feios. Meias fedorentas. Bafo. Amigos de uma noite só. Falta ganhar dez mil e ser solitário. Falta ser feio. Falta pança. Celulite. Não ir e não dar desculpa. Trabalhar sem vontade. Estar com ela pelo sexo. Estar com ela pelo carro. Pela casa na praia. Não gostar e dizer que é ruim. Falta ir ao banheiro na rua. Cabelo despenteado. Pedir um quarto pra dormir. Acordar com uma desconhecida. Falta ser burro. Pedir pra explicar. Perder a aposta. Usar óculos. Virar a cueca. Trair alguém que não confia em você. Ser traído. Falta perder as chaves de casa. Do carro. Odiar o seu trabalho. Fazer o possível pra ser despedido. Falta névoa de cigarro. Casar por interesse. Não casar porque não quer. Apresentar a amante à mulher. Sair sem avisar. Gozar e virar pro lado. Não ser compreensível. Falta não ter um baita carro. Ficar em casa por causa de grana. Comprar cachaça em vez de whisky. Falta papel e caneta. Falta a vida média.

Lucas Fabbrin