Additional Pieces

You turn the corner,

The corner you know,

The one with a "otel" sign,

The "m" dangling by neon electrical wires

Your decrepit home for the night

On Avenida Paulista.

10:57 pm.

As you park your fiat,

You feel a tickling sensation down your spine all because:

Behind the car door is the dark,

And in the dark, a stranger.

And in the stranger, the compulsion to fire.

And in that compulsion, a dart.

And in the dart, the point.

And in a point, the metal.

And in the metal, a piercing.

Through the glass,

In your bullet proof car

Glass towers pierce the sky, neon bleeding into the harbor.

Video cameras following every citizen move.

Bronze Buddha, towering over an empty forest.

Normal faces printed black and white on wanted posters.

Narrow streets free of New York's stench.

Political adversaries detained without reason.

Running groups of forty along the waterfront at 8 pm.

Power cables sprawl like urban ivy.

Anime statues in parks, on clothing, everywhere.

Metro shields installed so nobody jumps.

Street vendors selling trinkets with infectious smiles.

Beauty standards demanding whiter skin, younger faces.

There is no such thing as warmth in my Stockholm.

There are no sun-kissed sidewalks

Nor light lingering past dinner with hopeful eyes.

There is not even a vain patch of baby blue sky

That promises summer;

Not even a friendly nod from strangers.

My Stockholm is too orderly.

Its terrible quietness taunting me in the subway.

I become conscious of my arms locked

So I don't move them too much—

If I move them,

The chubby man in front will notice.

When arriving home at approximately seven p.m.,

I know winter has claimed my day already.