Carl

Candor cannot rescue you from Brasil.

For your voice, no allowances; that high pitched buzz and whistle will soon subdue the use of any melody. There is a sound to lock.  There is a sound to unlock:  This hope chest, this time capsule, this safe deposit box.  Curiosity and privation prove always the tabloid ink, the Hollywood treatment, the gossip that will run your nylons, a sliver in your thigh as you scoot into the pew.

These are men.  From the granite jaw to the gravelly back road, the matted fur that curls around his asshole, the foreskin rolling back like prices...  They are as if at a distance from themselves.  They are watching, scoring each performance.  I am, we are, they are diverse in their opinions; they are divers in their likes.  Their dislikes are the trash that lines the highway where they met, they meet in bathroom stalls and fucked or fuck in semi cabs. The dark chocolate wood is enveloped in spices.   

It is known that the humid air draws sap from the the jungle floor.  Still writhing with the idea of snakes, the red mud is henna bright against the green aggression of the forest.  The apathy of the blue, the sky, the green, the water, will acknowledge the ritual of waiting.  Perched birds, parched fish, dinner suffocating in the alien atmosphere.  The column starts, grey steps, buffed concrete, climbing lazily into the air.  

Carl counts on the adventure of the coming years, the extreme continent, to take the story of this one girl, this one guy and the few years (perhaps only months) where s/he will abandon the pursuit of understanding.  Then, it will come, a new education.  Bothered, a better student.  She wants to know how much she had learned in her silence.  How many times, from that speechless valley, her every tattle tel becomes a meditation.  His mantra contains more secrets.  the sudden revelation of that alternate civilization, a tribe that will demonstrate the final cruel lesson of anthropology:  animals, we are.  

But you must know that I do not judge these scores or even translate them.  Numbers mean little where three fanned-out fingers indicate the idea of infinity on this first evening that would collapse into that the short night that has been chasing the long day ever since...

That alarm clock in Tokyo went off tomorrow to inform you that just then at that same hour and minute, you would find yourself dancing in an elaborate headdress on a street in Brasil.