THE FOREHEAD
What seeps within and from out and that’s what makes the face to begin with. Where the organ of the face is. The staffs, hampered with age and other concern, always left to the lesser piles. The larger it gets, the lower the feelings and breast. I will put it thinking on a train. Dressed in the air of its excess. A porous border bundled by hats and hair, or bald and franklin. Bright and tangy, the gangly remembered heathers of history. It dampens in passing by the other asides and questions it poses to itself never needing answers, really, it knows its own pleasure in the furious brows. Within a knot, always judging. Trees exist aloft and are loved by the forehead. Term given to territory of the inferior body. Toss it a bone, it’ll take it warmly. A placeholder for convergence. The “ha” in the one about happiness.
THE EYES
The blueish gild of suicide tonic. Abstract slack back arranged in the middle. The windows stay open and shut and open and shut, they stay windows mostly. The diseases from mold and cypher called horror. Glisten in the wet of it. These types of swooning ironies of inconsistent hoopla. Declined and fluid openings. Pumps into the body the harder truths, processing nothing. Putting eyes on another you put your face on a face and that desire becomes desire held. There is terror there. Territory dulled with water. Hazel pleasures I learned from the father’s burden. Repeal my fears, this dictive vision blurs. The green boys take and never give having nothing to give but green and for some that’s enough. They sodden the issue of your grief. The hustle of their devotions. Direct and honest and sharpened by the person in holding like a razorblade bent across. The moon looks full tonight and almost humored.
THE EARS
I hear you when you’re coming up the stairs. I hear you when you make dinner, the nights you do, and the sounds of rice getting moist. I hear you eating, quietly, taking large gulps of milk. I hear you watching your programs, and the occasional laugh when you find one funny. I hear you when you brush your teeth. I hear you when you trip over the coffee table. I hear you when you say “fuck”, following. I hear you when you breath, out of the other parts of the face. I hear you when you take shits at night, running water to muffle the bodily moans. I hear you when you’re talking to your father about the market and as you try to alleviate concerns about it through jokes. I hear you when there’s a lower belch. I hear you when you snore in your sleep and the eyes hear it too and open. I hear you when you dream and scream. I hear you when you defer your fantasy with pornography and the jerking jutjape expelled. I hear you call your mom. I hear you close the book and put it back on the shelf. I hear you finagle. I hear you as you calculate the budget for the month, and the heavy breathing, and the rampant slams of plastic. I hear you when there are tears moving away and they sound like murder. I hear you when you play the guitar and sing and the songs sound soothing, suggesting something you don’t really have but want to be true. I hear you when you say “I love you” and I hear you when you leave, walking down the stairs, sighing softly.
THE NOSE
What is good is good and what is bad is bad and contorts the face accordingly. Discovers and holds until declined, but memory holds still as a lingering. Slews spoiled and yet fresh for many days beforehand. The churning burn on the stovetop, bleeped. The scant smell of what in the form of a question. Actual or improvised beat language for smelling the lesser things. Jetty the other times that require further exploration, no need, it stinks. Wet shade’s song or arrogance, nose-whistle and the smell of thyme. Mechanisms allow you to give snooty. An act of plucking the orchards. The hairs, there within, and the snot tangled rot. The part of the body people bless you for, usually.
THE CHEEKS
The full, yet forgotten parts. Where the hair grows, where the hair goes, as a more masculine fullness, forgotten.
THE LIPS
The too-tender to talk about. The part to touch about. The ever searching for the perfect fit. The wrapping, reconditioned as slumming, but the not ironic kind. Back into the orbit caused calm. Aware of the thefts. For men’s milk and the women who wear it. Surrounded by fields of the sleeping landlords who charge more than what is appropriate for rent. Are you clean at home? Locking on the banded braised locks that the lips like to lick. The lock of the heart, heaved open. For some reason it works. raced back to the lulls of form and silence. Construct from gendered kisses, vision cropped. Chapped, they sting the virtues of the wind as movement making things still. Flecked and flushed and smacked. Deferral is its directive, and that’s what we call desire. Believe me, they are not criminals. It’s stummered cross lingering that lips hold their own. The place where the sissy stuff happens.
THE MOUTH
Devour the void, belittled and fucked. Who needs you anyway. Mouthed messages toward your future faults. Amma and passed on yr cosmic egg. Internalize this limit and the social implied. Alternative vagus, the hollow said. Force and despair, it aggregates. Recognizing between intense light hunger. Our mouths, how desperately, they reconstitute the past or beg our future. To tell a compliment. Thinking in words, read on the train. The massy concepts our bodies make futile. A mouth is a medium. Our limits fail, like geography. The mouth maneuvers life towards a living liked or descended. How low it speaks, speaking the very things you don’t want to hear but speaking the things that abduct the rest of the passengers on the plane. The things that sweeten the pot. Pinch out the lights and shut up. Performance between eating and chatting and practice both like amorous. The arches, a bridge, your failures no longer philosophy. In essence, the position of desire. The place where you want to put things and yet always expel. The mouth makes the face vulgar, yet so exquisitely vulnerable. The heart of dreams undone.
THE CHIN
Always falling down.
