Sublime, as the cliché would have that aria,
at breakfast in a Brisbane cafe. Which? João can’t remember
the opera, though he does, well, the Singaporean
poet Cyril, the singer. Years later João would read, when young,
he had been an escort as well as an excellent student of voice,
confiding in the interview how he used to give sympathy
fucks to men whose lives seemed so desultory
the carnal was their only kindness. Recalling Cyril, not as castrato,
as genuine angel, João is reflecting that Sunyata, or Infinity,
is such a being, who in the midst of breakfasting poets
brings “La Traviata” and Brisvegas into a synergy
that can only be listened to unspeaking, marvelled
at. That moment was real, João feels, and worldly.
He had thought, I hope they’ve noticed, too. Not just me.
Sonnet from João of iGoli
1 August 2015