sit still while i finish your portrait

.

okay yes, i did digress
as i am
a wistful type

and forgetful.

i only wanted
to watch you.



. .

early love always begins
with this largesse.

what is the point
of so much silence?

let's talk about something else:
let's reimagine a story
where we both
say the right thing
at the right time.

i've seen you do it before.

i swear
it is a sure thing.

stop turning around.

try to believe me.



. . .

i'll finish my drink first,
then i'll come. i'll watch
first, then i'll come.
promise.

so i followed you
out of the bar. i followed you
into a bar. i followed
a crocodilian instinct
i had about you.

why are you here
all alone? being good.
your type is so rare,
that's why i followed you.

i followed you
because you have a pretty name,
in latin it means
hammer.

i could be so serious back then

i only cared about art and language
i didn't know much,
but i liked it.  all of it
especially egon schiele,
picasso and schiele. i'm lousy
at english, so i linger on the art
and only watch movies with subtitles.
in fact, i love english actually.
oh i can't remember.
anderson, scorsese, aronovsky,
i could go on
but i'll try not to.

am i even allowed to be here?
i wont talk
more than five minutes.
i'll just get that dead look
in my face.

doesn't it make you happy;

i so rarely
do anyone else's portrait.
"the mysterious weakness
of men's faces"
and that sort of thing. instead
i have obsessed myself
with richter. it does me good.
the rigorousness
of his brush strokes,

those wide commitments.



. . . .

can i have some more?  it's so good.
for once i don't feel so empty.

like after sorry sorry i’m sorry i’msorry
throbs
like a radiowave,

those black holes
in my morality.
i know what i did

to get us here.
look, i don't feel good about it.

i was brokenhearted. that's why.

don't
be distressed.
i liked you that way, too.
more.

you know it anyway,
that i’m falling in love with you?
and i’m madly in love with you?
are you blushing? you are too.
so then who
is in charge here? not
you. you seem out of it tonight.
you look like
you had a bad day.

those wet lashes.

sorry
i didn't think

that you would ever
be so taken,
that you would make
so much of things

but tell me you wouldn't
have done exactly the same
if you were me.

tell me.



. . . . .

you're not brokenhearted for no reason.

there's a reason.

well.

well.

you don’t have to torture yourself.

it's over. all settled.
i'm sorry. i swear i am.



. . . . . .

how does that look?
it's strange because it’s you
and it isn't you. alright
i have to go.

you don't have to love me.

someone wolf-whistled
on my walk home.



. . . . . . .

i always prefer to be clear.
but don't tell me
to relax.
you just jumped
down my throat
do you realize? when
you say

obsessive obsessive
and what is that? do you mean
like gravity? okay fine,
i’m always somewhere else.
really you should try it.
the opposite
of right-mindedness.

you’re always somewhere else.

how can you say that. can you see me
clearly, i don't want to know.
but it’s so nice
being here.
a little too nice.
that smile

i admit
i was shaking.
i was tired
but i didn't give up.

i told my bones to go.
i went.

blot this part out.
try to forget.
i won’t forget.



. . . . . . . .

i am still studying the anguish
in schiele's oeuvre.
those delicate nudes,
emaciated and grotesque,
gaping
in such unlikely positions.

twisted, obscure,
and very dark.

i've tried to keep that out
of your portrait
but it never works.

better not
to tell it
slant, actually

better to embrace
one's own disfigurements
with an emotional directness
that makes others want
to look away.

pleasure being so obvious
and so obviously tangential
to torture.

is it ever possible
for pleasure to be shared?
unlike pain,
it is not a competition.

even my portraits
are really
self-portraits.

it is part
of my wistfulness.