133poem

March 12, 2011

I met a man at a house party.

The introduction was made by an enthusiastic surfer
in tweed shorts and sandals who thought we should chat,
something about common ideals.

We shook hands.

My reply to his question, American, was not in line with his beliefs. He said he too was American, of the Americas, an Uruguayan leftist who could not relax his cartoon gun belt to share a beer and talk. I tried to explain the grammar behind my answer but he was a wasted lesson, an agenda inked and classified, rolling ‘r’s in English out of principle.

Accusations were in his eyes.

I’m not globalization wrapped in skin selling humanity to the highest bidder, as he alluded when pointing out the samba had flipped to hip hop and it was somehow my fault. Fuck you, I love samba and hip hop. The DJ is Brazilian and Germans named America after an Italian. Your high horse is European, brought here by Spaniards. Vikings began this bloodshed, hate the Norwegians.

Brazil and the United States are just landmass divided by man-made canal. This whole expanse is my home, my home has become my mind, and my mind is open. So rage on brother, your ignorance is entertaining.

Then we went our separate ways.

LOCATION: Florianopolis, Brazil – I went to a house party with Stela, Camila, Rodi, and Fabiano; had a great time with the whole Floripa crew.

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