Woman Face
Every body has its star.
a fingernail, a toe, eyelash,
the cant to lip, a cut to brow
a flint spark to iris sun can catch.
Low talking in the booth by the door
shoving the plate with the check
back and forth to see who would
tire of the game first,
patient waitress stopping by
to see if tips would be affected
by the standoff.
Everybody has a scar.
Somewhere in the circuitry laced.
Every nail and screw and board removed
no matter gorgeous now, left a trace.
Arm in arm or around a shoulder
there is no difference stumbling
toward the car for lack of
general agility between.
Play cards, play coffee,
play any song, it is noise
compared to the tractor between girls and boys.
Every body has it's star.
Lip to lobe, not on target yet.
Drive home with one hand,
the other efforting the get.
Take what you want, take what you will
every body a collection of stars,
every eye a telescope
dissecting the constellations parts
and nebula and cloud and oddity,
the dust of arms and stone and ice obscuring galaxies.
Woman Face (run road remix)
Every body has its star,
deep lens and definition.
I thought I knew you
when I watched, with the care of a toll booth
waiting for the weaving to settle down
and your car to slow
before it spiked itself
on the uptick of a Jersey wall,
you bend at the knees to pick up your credit card
at the check out counter.
You turned around and said
you were sorry and I
did not believe you
then and I swear now,
my hand to God,
that you were trying
too hard for congeniality
after everyone behind you
saw where the tattoo on your thigh started and
imagined where those vines and roses ended.
Every body has a scar,
deep lens and definitions
are not forthcoming
hair whipped across your shoulder blades
paying for your lunch and the width of your smile
burning straight through your skull
and spine and sprayed across the back
of your head, eyes the same,
where my retinas refuse
to move on.
The circle of your jaw line
still blinding me from behind
the strands of your hair. After image still there
smoldering like a pocket full of
D cell batteries stripped of their skin
shoved against my car keys and grown
more heated by the second
reacting to each other.
Every body has its star
deep lens and definitions
in the play by play play on
toward a horizon in which
I can, gently I promise,
slice the top most layer of your skin apart
and lap at the brilliance you've
inside, tasting the motor that could
make a million watt smile,
the one that burned my retinas blind,
go the way yours did.
Every body has its star
deep lens and definitions.
A woman's face to please
or snare, or better yet
a kiss to... never shared.
Circumstance irrelevant.
Follow home. Diagram.
With care. Photograph.
Document. Remove. Wear.
Every jealousy has its scar
deep lens and definition.
Beyond a line, you never cross
Take only what is given.
Woman Face (natural mix by Jexel)
Every body has its star.
Can I suck on your pinky toe? No?
Okay.
Every body has its scar.
Trace with tip of nose one of the lines
you drew with a ball point pen along the wing of hip bone
to the left of your navel and find
the edge of the woods.
Everybody has scars.
Lick the spilled game of pick up sticks,
raised skin against blunt trauma
that never faded
with the come on of dawn.
Every body has a star.
Kissing the lip of your eye socket,
naked beside,
where the broken bottle ripped your eyebrow open,
now healed decent, I whisper, you sleeping, I could die.
Right here. Right now. Happy.
Because of you.
