Macaws flying among elephant tree trunks

One needs the enstrangement
of a different place,
sometimes,
to write about what the eyes
don't see anymore.

A real writer's cliche, but it's true.

I compare my two tropics:
after Brazil,
Venezuela.

Drier, so much drier,
medium-green foliage,
none of the dripping moisture
of the figueira
of the mangueira.
Palm trees,
with elephant trunks painted white,
banana trees,
cacti,
yucca plants. 

Spanish-style houses,
austere,
two-storied,
with red-tiled roofs and white-washed walls,
with black or white fences,
always.

The sudden flourish:
flowers- coral red, or bright lemon yellow. 

But always the sister villas,
the iron railings,
white Granada,
white Andalucia,
recalled?
Traces of administrative Spain
of the well-regulated,
bureaucratic maze
after the conquest?

Brazil, a Baroque chaos, a post-modern pastiche.

In Caracas, it seems,
the 50s and 60s never happened.
No beveled houses,
with absurd little bridges,
or buildings
with Niemeyer curves,
or v-shaped pillars,
like a woman's half-open legs. 
Sao Paulo is so far away.

The light here is brighter,
stronger,
whiter.
More wind too.
The tops of the palm trees have been chopped off.
Macaws red and blue fly
strangely
absurdly
bizarrely
screeching.

There are more holes in the streets:
Republica Bolivariana de Venezuela.

In Sao Paulo,
Itaim,
new places pop up
like wild flowers
or weed,
Rascal,
Vanilla cafe,
Sao Pedro pub,
yet another temaki place.

But the kids, at the club,
here, there,
the teenagers look the same:
Abercrombie t-shirts,
and Aeropostale.
The boys wear pastel-colored bermudas,
checked,
hanging low around their hips,
white or navy or pink polo shirts,
and white sneakers.
The OC look.
The girls, just as clean,
ironed shorts that hug their honed curves,
pale t-shirts,
Converse.
They are clean, clean, clean.
Oh and isn't their English speckless!

In Sao Paulo and in Caracas,
the kids like Obama.