Our face speaks
The language of nuance

Our bodies are fluent
In passion

choked cries are the liberated
Voices of pain

And hands the messengers
Of desire

Spoken word the refuge
Of a race too frightened
By such pure communication
Diluting speech to seek
Diplomacy over truth
Security over vulnerability

That I could say more
Than everything
By the angle of my expression
Rather than the constructed
Words of a language
Never designed to explain
The intangible.
For how better to articulate
Nonexistence
Than with the untouchable chill
Of a downcast iris against
An arched brow,
Not betraying the
Complexity of human emotion
With the word
"disappointed".

But what happens
when what you do
cannot be erased?

You keep going.

And what happens
when you run
out of space?

You start again.

But what happens
when you tire?

You rest.

And what happens
when you die?

You smile.

And what happens
when all you make
is absolute ****?

You learn to love the losers
and embrace the imperfect
for its honesty.

Because I am 60 percent persistence
and 10 percent talent
leaving me a 70 percent artist
in a world of 110,
which is a constant state
of adequate
in a world of miraculous.

And I can try to convince myself
that the remaining 30 percent
isn't emptiness.

It's potential.

I wish that you would lift my chin
with the tender underbelly of your middle knuckle
of your pointer finger
and that you would trace the line
of my strawberry lips
with the fingerprint of your thumb
softly memorizing the asymmetry
of a face not fit to model but somehow
fit to be deserving of your touch

I wish that you would brush my cheek
with the tips of your eyelashes
as they flutter to sleep next to me
your breath soft and steady
like a gentle wave expanding and receding
on the pale shore of my bare neck
whispering life into a cold shoulder
that softens at the cool warmth
of an unapologetic slumber.

And I want so badly
to do more, more, more
jaw clenching madly--
"don't stare at the floor!"

"Find more sensation,
feel it deep, deep, deep"
"use imagination"--
the corrections I must keep

"Try to look happy!"
my eyes are dull, dull, dull
"Remember, ballet's sappy."--
"dancer, think of the skull!"

All of this in my core,
I do gladly, gladly, gladly
And I want so badly
to do more, more, more.

What a cruel existence
to be one original artist
among millions

at what point is it redundant
to be unique,

and when will it be novel
to be ordinary?

when creativity became common
brilliance, typical

artistry achieved
at infancy,
and the minimum standard to be
a prodigy.

the least you can expect
is a breathtaking performance

and the most you can hope for
is a biography.

drip
drip-drop
drip
drip-drop
ka-thunk ka-thunk
drip-drop
CRACK!
ka-thunk ka-thunk
scrreeeech

like a badly tuned
but well-rehearsed
orchestra of
metal wheels on metal tracks
sticky doors admitting tired backs
intercom voice mumbles and cracks
rats paws patter and nibble snacks

and age old water drips, drips, drops
into age old puddles full of
age old trash in an
age old system of
public transportation

And the choir begins to sing:
"stand clear of the closing doors"
"yeah you'd better look away---
"clear the doors"
--you curly haired jew"
"59th street, stand clear of the--
"you *******"
--closing doors, please. 63rd street next"
"you think I feel sorry for you?"
"stand clear of the closing doors--
"I don't feel sorry for nobody"
--please"
"******* curly haired jew"
"stand clear of the doors"
"yeah you'd better look away"
"72nd street, stand clear"
"yeah, you'd better look away"
"stand clear of the closing doors please"

"81st street next. stand clear."

A big curtain
As if on fire
Separates us from them
Real from fantasy
Gods from mortal me

It drapes
And tumbles
Like an elegant ball gown
Though what they wear
Is mostly bare

And I long
To kindly shout
Redirections because I see
How much better
The choreography would be
If entrusted to me

Arrogant
Is what I am
And fearful when the time does come
To take charge of my own art
But separate, I can play the part
Much better than I do
When it's MY show that's about to start

Is it not enough
that my mind is haunted
with dark monsters?

creatures of doubt
that creep around
corners with pins,
and whisper "failure"
lovingly to every bright
balloon of hope.

spiders of anxiety
crawl over
flowers of bravery
and spin a web
that makes
courage cower.
bravery buckle.
power petrified.

Is it not enough
that I battle
my own brain?
would I rather have
the life to match?
to 'justify'
my art,
my work,
my ****** expressions?

I wasn't aware
that I have to earn
depression---
that I first must
live a life worthy
of sadness

And now I question
if I'm just
broken
spoiled
or should quest for
the existence to
more properly fit
the mind
I was born with.

They say that my only way
to be home for Christmas
is in my dreams.
If that's true, my
reality must be in
a far away land.

Who knew Boston was
so mysterious...

How long then, must I walk
to either reach the
land of sleep or
wake up to a reality
that includes a home?

Lonely in a crowd without the
         **One person the mind jumps to
         Violently, it isn't pleasant but
     thEn again lonliness never was

         Sun beams through a window
         Under a cloudy sky
         Barely warming but pleasing to
        iMagine how it might feel to
         Ignite from a cool flame, not
         To burn but to be on fire again

         Anger happens because we
         Can't not be human unfortunately
         Control happens too though.
         Every once in a while
         Prayer happens but we never
admiT it.

Stop
Laughing like that.
you sound **A bit
Pathetic.

Hide that smile.
hIde that frown.
Thank your lucky stars.

Steam from the shower
Clears the mind and
Reveals the
mArks left behind
because I am Too fair or
should I say Caucasian
looking, Hispanic
doesn't comE
acrosS clearly like the mind.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, to
Everyone but me
becAuse I never got
anywheRe on my own.

Here lies the secret,
Eat it like dessert:
All of this has been done before
Little doesn't even come close to describing me.

Melt into movement
Ease into enjoyment
kNeel into knowing
Drown in deliverance.

Scratch.
Cover.
Again.
Repeat.

Two sparrows descended upon
food left atop a picnic table--
bread crumbs and
chicken wing bones
not picked bare yet.

And the birds ate the birds
with zeal and their familiar,
innocent sweetness
and I wondered if they knew
they were cannibals.

And if they knew,
I wondered
if they would care.

It's time to write
I tell myself
there is so much to describe

a knot in the stomach
from the ropes of love and pride
getting too tangled
(the two never did get along)

an ache in the heart
from the dead weight of fear
she's getting heavier
(I can't stop feeding her)

write beautiful words

about the ugliness that clouds the mind
the condensation of dissatisfaction
enclosed by the walls of negativity
(and when it rains, it pours)

with so much inspiration
how could I possibly go wrong?
It's time to write

if the bottoms of our feet
were repeatedly coated in black ink,
then someone at least would start so see
how much I fall behind.

like the shadow that begins
side by side but slowly lengthens
stretches, pulls away from
your footsteps, I fall behind.

the distance between our strides
leaves clues of one stronger, one weaker,
and it's unclear if the person ahead is faster
or the other is just slower and falls behind.

if i could paint my feet to see
the difference in our gaits that lead
you to be so ahead of me, I would
but I could never stop to look back
without falling behind.

If I wrote in rhyme,
with satisfying time,
would you like it?

Does it comfort you
seeing stanzas of two,

And is it pleasing
without any meaning?

Do you mind it?

And if I were to stumble
on my own words and
my thoughts crumble
beneath the structure

of beautiful nothingness
and regress

to complexity that resembles more
the disjointed thoughts of our souls
the pain and ugly in our hearts
the way we might actually speak (gasp!)
and think
and hope
and hurt
--is that not beautiful enough
for your poetic sensibilities?

If not, I understand
and will no longer clash
my words like waves that crash
on the unforgiving sand.

You may find much to see,
but this poem means nothing to me.

Symmetry is lost.
Uneven scars on my hands.
A long sliver divides
one of my wrists in two.
A thick, wizened scrape
completes the line of a pointer finger.
This is how I know
Right from Left.

And my direction
comes from my mistakes.
My orientation
from a mixture
of hate and fate.
My scars ruin my symmetry,
and teach me to distinguish
Right from Left.

I have words to say
I want to speak,
to tell you that I--.

Did you catch that?

My muted voice
is screaming through
the pattern of my footsteps and--.

Listen; a poem of gaits.

My heart moves my tongue and
my soul pushes the air
out my lungs to formulate these words: --.

The sound carries to the eyes of the listener
who hears my body move and
sees my mouth speak but not--.

I want my words touched, my movement read, my dance heard, my voice seen.

I--.

If my skin were a curtain
I'd pull back the drapes
at the corner of my clavicle.
the breathing, feeling organs
of my torso would reveal
what you never see.

the clenches in my stomach
when I catch your fleeting glance

the double-thump of my heart
relishing your bare shoulder

my lungs frozen--suffocating
under your cold, soft touch

shrinking with the biggest sigh
as I watch you walk away.

But I always wear my skin
two layers too thick
and hide my delightful shame
of delighting in shaming you.

clover honey hair
iris pools of sea spray

soft moon skin
sunrise hands

bittersweet smile
faerie laugh

Andromeda shines
behind black pupils

a glance covers me
with morning dew

neck of dusk
and back of noon

silk chocolate fingers
red wine wrists

almond eyes closed
by snowflake lashes

a heart of sunset
and soul of crashing waves

beauty is seeing
a ladybug on the ground
picking it up to save it
from reckless falling feet
and realizing
it has already died.

beauty is crying
with all your might,
so hard you can't
even make a sound.
but it works out because
your friends are in the next room.

beauty is staring
at the person you love
who stares at
the person they love
who stares at you.
all looking, none seeing.

beauty is scratching
the skin off your hands
and clenching your palms
so tightly it hurts
in the only way your body
can express your mind.

beauty is laughing
so loudly people notice
and stopping and wishing
nothing had ever been so
funny because it wasn't
worth the embarrassment.

If I could breathe the trees
I'd exhale color

And my lungs would be full of Fall,
My chest would Rise with roots and sap.

I'd breathe them out, they'd take it back
We transform into each other.

I'd be Daphne as my
Skin turned to bark

And join the display
of orange red yellow brown

A laurel tree amongst mighty pines
a nymph before the gods

If l could breathe the trees
I'd exhale color

I changed direction
Mid-pavement mid-walk, mid-sentence of mid-thought
And I chose home.

And my Calypso caressed me away
with her truth.
The journey home is harder than the absence was.

It makes exception to the adage;
I ignored where my heart was,
and I chose home.

I'll never get there
And I'm not coming back.
I'm choosing the eternal walk home.

If you look closely,
you'll see my soul speak.
peel your eyes and watch--

the subtle jaw and fist clenches,
rise and fall of the chest
shiver up the spine
listen carefully
my soul speaks--

tongue pressing to teeth
chin lifted, eyes down
elbows bent, knees locked
these words
become phrases

tears welling, not falling
hips swaying and popping.
heart pounding, neck retreating
I've spoken whole novels
in these articulations

to know oneself, stop talking.
your soul speaks in your body:
start watching

I walked through the damp grass,
across the grimy pavement that shone,
coffee mug in hand.
the drops fell in
and I drank the rain

And my body expanded
because it contained the sky
on my tongue, down my throat
in my core, in my soul
I drank the rain

My mind was a cloud pattern
my arms were the wind
my eyes turned to hail
my fingernails dripped off my hands,
they turned to rain.

My eyelashes were the snow
on my autumn sky face
And my feet sank into the soil
nurturing the grass
As i sweat out the rain

I puddled on the ground,
reflected the emerging sun
I condensed to rejoin the sky
and formed a cloud of my own
and began again, to rain

Your eyes gaze calmly, staring straight ahead
at the menu you hold between your hands,
speaking only about the kind of spread
you’ll share to keep your bread from getting bland.
Cough once, speak twice, drink water with some ice,
you have nothing interesting left to say.
Don’t even bother asking for advice,
except maybe what card you’ll use to pay.
Ignore the grace that thirty years will bring,
the happiness was never bound to stay.
It’s gone like the shine of your wedding ring,
and never was it any good to pray.

And as you leave you think but are not sure
You heard "What a cute old couple they were!”

I liked you better
when I didn't know you.
pixelated words
made you my Pygmalion.
except you never
            came alive.

Keep worshiping the stone
while the puppet-master
works from above
or should i say
             Down Under.

You were my cocktail,
and drugged, i followed
your manipulations,
            requests.
           frivolous requests.

Called it my "education".
One where they used
              the rod.

He is the text to my white-sheeted soul,
giving my energy potential; I am titled.
The coffee stains and characters have purpose
when accompanied by our story.

And on that night, he inscribed his
words to become the beginning of our novel:
our first conversation transformed
my diary into dialogue.

Our roughly-colored previous pages tether and tear,
as we build a better time out of new pulp.
We aren't unwritten, for see on this heart of ours,
is the carving of Fall's creation.

He let me in;
his open wounds
made it easier.

All things die at the setting of the sun
First shall be last and the last shall be first
You know that’s true when all is said and done

Moonshine and black light bring no salvation
Those unquenched have eternity of thirst
All things die at the setting of the sun

And by the bad are the good overrun
With gnashing of teeth and words that are cursed
You know that’s true when all is said and done

The corpses dig graves; virtue there is none
And though we are the last we are the worst
All things die at the setting of the sun

Along with the light, the beauty is gone
No music and no plays, no lines rehearsed
All things die at the setting of the sun
You know that’s true when all is said and done

Our lives are made of not but shallow things
Relax, its not you who has to worry
Let time pass by, try if you can to sing

Just sip your champagne and wear diamond rings
Assuredly homeless know no fury
Our lives are made of not but shallow things

Bourgeois in the past, it has no meaning
Be elegant, there’s no need to hurry
Let time pass by, try if you can to sing

Not you but the unfortunate will sting
Don’t fret, don’t cry, don’t get in a flurry
Our lives are made of not but shallow things

To money, wretched money, do you cling
But money, from pockets, it does scurry
Let time pass by, try if you can to sing

The sound you hear is not your own screaming
Sit calm, sit back, watch the world go blurry
Let time pass by, try if you can to sing
Our lives are made of not but shallow things

Remember my face, but not my name
As we part ways, hands in our pockets
I’ll never see you again the same
You’ll only remember my face, not name.

Remember my sound but not my song
The words were never important to you.
You knew you would be fine all along
So you remember my sound, not song.

Remember my scent but not my perfume,
My hair was never much to smell.
A fool to think you might have been groom…
Do you even remember my scent, not perfume?

Remember my curves, but not my shape,
How uninteresting they appear now.
Never something at which to gape,
Hardly remember my curves, not shape.

I remember your name and your face,
And all I take is a sideways glance
At your now unattainable bubble space.
I remember both name and face.

I remember your song and sound,
The melody and words burn in my ears.
A rope, they tie around me; I’m bound.
And I still remember your song and sound.

I remember your perfume and scent,
A smell of *** that I recognize,
And a desire you’ll never admit was meant.
But I remember your perfume and scent.

I remember your shape and body,
As hard as I tried not to stare.
Seems that your memory is shoddy,
Forever I’ll remember your shape and body.

Try as I might to forget your name,
It’s all I have left of you to hold.
As you tell me this never happened,
I’ll prove you wrong when I speak your name.

Black pupils envelop your iris, and I wish
That I could forgive your caressing hand, and
our lips would reacquaint and release as we crease the sheets

With salty tears and reconciled sense, but silence
ensues after your massage; you get the message
and sink deep into the  bed, your head

turned away from my cold shoulder; and I'm caught, not
sure if my resignation was worth your shirt, my skirt
not being flung full force on the floor-- more

even to say we could embrace, your face
on the space between my face and my chest; rest
no more, I'm ready to supplicate! but Fate
would say, "your hearts sleep awoken and broken in a fight, tonight."