Why I Am Not A Painter

this man                 you'll forget
after the hor'douvres
like stars are swallowed
in dark folds, silk moving slow like glitter
tornadoes in two-liter bottles. tonight
you are the eye. the man looks
limply at you from beside
the painting you constructed. you think
he must be vacant now,
this man,                 but he recollects
your hair, it was shorter,
ankles, swinging, from tall
chairs, under the cuffs of
                                   rolled-up jeans.
the two of you are heavy like cinnamon
sediment inside of hot apple cider.
the women sip wine, and you
desire to run up to them and tip their glasses
onto each thousand dollar dress. instead
you slip into a corner
of the room, like you are in the painting, sitting in a
wooden chair, your heels lodged under
your knees in a skirt long enough to hide
black underwear, under that
black skirt, the black
notebook in your lap,
the black cat on the book, preventing you
from writing it, or getting up. the man is standing
by a window in the painting, looking outside. the man is staring
at the painting, avoiding his eye and missing
that something is there
                                           in the painting. you did not invite
the memory but he is there regardless, eating the cheese
and crackers called something French, he has a handful
while the trays are all empty and shining like the moon.

this man                 you'll forget
after the hor'douvres have been sent
to your stomach and the stomaches
of others
adorned in silk, swirling like tornadoes
made inside crystal two-liter bottles. you
are the eye. the man looks
limply at you from beside the famous painting
you constructed, and you think he must be
vacant now, but he is recollecting
your hair when it was shorter
and your ankles, swinging from tall chairs,
underneath the cuffs of rolled-up jeans.
                                                                             in the gallery
the two of you are heavy like cinnamon
sediment inside of hot apple cider. the spectators sip wine, and you
desire to run up to every attractive woman
and tip their glasses onto each thousand dollar dress.
instead you slip into a corner
of the room, like you are in the painting, sitting in a
wooden chair, with your heels lodged under your
knees in a skirt long enough to hide
your black underwear, painted in
a layer underneath that black skirt, the black
cardboard cover of the notebook sitting in your lap,
the black cat sitting on the book, preventing you
from writing it, or getting up. the man is standing by a window
in the painting, looking outside. the man is staring
at the painting, avoiding himself and missing
that something is there
                                           in the painting. you did not invite
the memory but he is there regardless, eating the cheese
and crackers called something French, he has a handful
while the trays are all empty and shining like the moon.

a man walks into the room. he has hair
the color of hair you are familiar with,
when he smiles, teeth bent
into the arch of a mouth you know,
like your own. it is not recognizable
when you shake his hand; it has been
a long time since you kissed him, and if
you kissed him, you wonder if the kisses
would be the same kind of kisses. he did
not wear suits when you knew him, and now
he does, or at least he does for social
functions of this sort. you have to stop
holding his hand or you'll risk scaring
yourself.
                 this man                you'll forget
after the hor'douvres have
been sent to your stomach and others
adorned in silk. remember those rendevous
with dresses in department stores
to touch them, try them, and then
leave them slack on their plastic hangers? the man
looks limply at you from beside that painting you
constructed, and you think he must be
vacant now, but he is recollecting
your hair when it was shorter
and your ankles, swinging from tall chairs,
underneath the cuffs of rolled-up jeans.
                                                                           in the gallery
the two of you are heavy like cinnamon
sediment inside of hot apple cider. the spectators sip wine, and you
have the desire to run up to every attractive woman
and tip their glasses onto each thousand dollar dress
but instead you slip into a corner
of the room, like you are in the painting, sitting in a
wooden chair, with your heels lodged under your
knees in a skirt long enough to hide
your black underwear, painted in
a layer underneath the black skirt, the black
cardboard cover of the notebook sitting in your lap,
the black cat sitting on the book, preventing you
from writing it, or getting up. the man is standing by a window
in the painting, looking outside. the man is staring
at the painting, avoiding himself and missing
that something is there
                                               in the painting. you did not invite
the memory but he is there regardless, eating the cheese
and crackers called something French, he has a handful
while the trays are all empty and shining like the moon.

hearing*

1.

we say i love you, but only
with our fingers.

                                   only i take-up
the language; you use the manual
alphabet, are so S-L-O-W

it all blends: what was that

word? when did it end?
as though we're not expecting.

2.

you are suddenly romantic when
i misinterpret a joke.                                     (*note)
how we miss each other
's movement when hearing: bestill
my hand, your hand on my hand,
and you whisper: did you undrstnd?

3.

i think the last word
is "A-L-S-O," but instead of asking
again i settle for silence, and suddenly
do not see you; my head floating
on your chest. i barely breathe, still
cannot hear what it is
you believe in.








*

mis-ən-tər-prət, rapid
-pət\vt 1: to interpret
wrongly 2: to explain wrongly. rapid:

one style of fingerspelling. others:
lexicalized (adj: expressed by a word),

careful. hi(ə)r
to perceive by the ear; to listen to
with attention; to entertain the idea --
used in the negative [wouldn't ~ of it]; to have
the capacity of apprehending
sound. hearing, not Deaf.

the words are caught
outside of her throat. [ ] knows
the words, but they do not

form.

the phlegm she tastes is not her
phlegm but your phlegm
inside of her throat.

you are calm. you are
like a box made of wood
with metal hinges like
jaws. why, she is crying

and you do not
know what to say, or claim
not to know, while saying
you do not know what to say.

1.

we say i love you
with our fingers. (if we speak, the words
become concrete.) only i take
sign language, so you use the manual
alphabet. you are slow and it
confuses me: when did that word
end? when did the next end?
like we're not expecting.

2.

when i misinterpret your joke, you
are suddenly romantic, until i notice
the mismatch in our gaze. bestill
my hand, your hand on my hand,
and you whisper: did you undrstnd?

i won't say it. LOOK-AT-ME: (you shake
your head)I THINK I KNOW YOU FIRST TOLD-ME YOU LOVE
YOURSELF, TEASING. SECOND PART, YOU THINK
YOU LOVE ME, LAST WORD FINGERSPELL AGAIN?

3.

i think it is "A-L-S-O,"
but when i ask, it is too quick and we settle
for staring, holding hands, and suddenly
i cannot see you, my head floating on
your chest. i barely breathe and i cannot
see or hear what it is you believe in.

Everybody goes to their home
schools on the bus. We notice
how they look. They look bad
to us. They look good in their new
clothes and hair up-done in a sexy
mess. They look
stupider than we do and we know
what school they go to;
they have cell phones. We are reading
but not really reading, just enough
to feel good about our placement
in life, how we sit at the front
of the bus, right behind the radio
speakers, which are soft
but also too loud, too poorly
constructed and ringing with static,
like our clothes, which we bought
from a vintage clothing store.