Micro/-expressions

acute senses can make lollipops lose their wrappers,
exposing the most expert deception
lies squeezed into the tightest corset:
explode and leave a trail of over/-compensation
when you have said too much
it is not time to be silent
for silence will bleed you into the deepest well
the micro, micro, micro expression I have listened to before
it's the lie revealed in expression,
the tormented guilt you send by way of distorted face and
whispered anxiety

your skin did not become orange or yellow or shades of both
your left eyebrow did not lift in anticipation of a successful tale
your hands did not shake
your voice did not crack in moments of over/-exposure

you buzzed like a bee finding nectar to calm your betrayal
such a pathetically beautiful image
such a sad bastard
such a bloody deceased whore...

in my head.

no big deal

your nonchalance
made me bleed a whole month

when was the last time your penis
exposed such vulnerability?
with each drop of masculinity
my gender's defined by your absence
of pain

but it is no big deal, eh?

on the act of waiting for the right time

if only i'd wait for more inspiration
than the words would flow
better, in their becoming before being, crisper
in anticipation of perfection
i'd cross all i's and dot all t's

if only i'd wait for the sun to shine brighter
and cast a beam of light
melting letters into morphemes
magnifying words into meanings
thoughts into symbolic forms

to be judged in light of
all lights

if only i'd wait for the critical moment
these words would not have crashed on my apple, once
or wound up wet in a rained on text, once again
because syncopation can repeat at ifinitum,
the way a drum beats
or pendulum swings
but the right time never comes

For Foucault

S.t.u.m.b.l.i.n.g

1:00 in the morning,
too ragged to sleep,
too wasted to curse,
too full of you to lie,

you’re not finding me.

four months past and
I mourn it now.
Delayed reactions sting a little longer—an
almost biting touch

stumbling to get over it
can’t even name you yet
it’s not pretend…I know.

the hardest story to tell is the one you cannot claim

still stumbling as you walk
still stumbling in my words
still stumbling

it’s not pretend…I know.

Dimensao Estetica

Is more than a Marcuse poster found on Brazilian college walls
A homage to eros and civilization
Left hand reaching out beyond his stare
An arabesque in ballet
Alone and with gaze,
The punctum:
The idea before the clicking finger.
Trigger finger, trigger happy, trigger apathy
The demise in the voyeur's brow,
Furrowing into the depths of a walk

Crossing the street to close the gap
Empty walls showing cracks
Past heads shrinking their covers
Moving down the duvet
To reveal crumpled pieces of skin
To fill wounds with wetness




We let them Over Flow--destroying
And
Confronting musical mistakes later

Beyond the valley of the dolls

lies a dedication to those who only take

life has been that way lately
mantras, mistakes y maleducados
only maladapt my muses into mined melodramas
all the more

Ludlow St. and its theater of the absurb
caressing my belly
in a laughbable lower-east side kind of way
sometimes pit-in-stomach nervousness
or raucous belts

you need humor to
remember scripted and sculptured lines
enacting different characters
dressed in affect and accents
to narrate sweet nothings
behind the bar

scenes are for scenesters
text and empty sex to lull
this act to a close
et fin.

French Thursdays

repeating youth games
smile at the aging
where orange lipstick
and
blush
no longer veil

lessons already learned and learned and learned
travel too fast
in cabs
where pleasuring women
and pleasured men
speak in tongues

a trip through everything euro,
everything done
this time the wine turned one over
left the others out of tune
some letter (perhaps b) gone flat
some limbs too wasted
some face not lifted enough

Forte

Falling,
Falling,
Falling

Found

Speckeled hair caught under the stationary shopping cart
Blue plastic glasses over her deaf blue eyes
Dressed in her house rope and slippers
Keys in hand
Scabs across her arms and legs
Who loved Forte other than the Verizon man who found her?
Other than her lost son?

"Forte, can you hear me?"
"Forte, can you hear me?"

No beat to her stare
No rhyme to her breathing

"Forte, can you hear me? "
"Forte, can you hear me?"

Everyone in sight stands alert to the stillness of her body,
Staging responses for when the "savers" arrive
To announce what we already know:
Forte, left with a sudden blow

Pinching her nose
Pounding her chest
Machines in an apartment hallway;
Rehearsing the way to bring her back
(Is this the way she wanted to close?)

All that remains is the wet denture of an old woman
And a cold body being pulled away publicly

"Forte, can you hear me?"

Flight

Jammed telephone booth:
Pushing in quarters that want to go home
A line of white faces behind me
Known space
Walked its parameters--
Always
Yet a crash can make a gal ask:
"where am I? how do I return?"

This is my memory of me waiting to end.

you can read?

But,

don't think much more of the words slipping off my tongue,
commanding you to please...
it was a momentary/addiction
always a body 2 body persuasion
anti-emotion
anti-commotion
anti-explosion
steady boy, every-body needs their fix


But,


you've been reading me like an assigned novel--by memorizing
characters all in play
plot to a time
themes jumping out from the crevices of your mind
denouement who?
who?
steady boy, i play like french ain't my game
while reading you reading me reading my name
as you put your piano hands to mr. big...
ahhhhh,
no-one's shaming you
ahhhhh


But,


you can read?
sexual healing?
nah.
sexual/emotional/spiritual connect-some-dots?
nah.
sexual pleasure?
your extra sense did you wrong


But,

i'll entertain your paranoia
not because i'm better...i mean bitter


But,

because i am tired of being sung