A portrait of an elderly man walking down a street lighted by nineteen fifties neon signs invites the viewer to stay away from the setting being portrayed: a physically crowded space where loneliness is the central motIf. It begins quite clear and then moves slowly the viewer towards the end, blurring its images and colors, neon signs. One man. One tense, resigned face walking alone. Another characters that fills North American arts.
A man, some might believe, most probably, had left some midnight bar, a coffee shop counter to walk his solitude. Others can argue, a night hawk. While Hopper recreates loneliness in American cities, John (not his name but let’s name him after the apostle) is not walking down a street in a USA city. John is walking down Saint Catherine Street, Montreal, center of freedom, pleasure and illusions. A city in one of those unclearly defined regions where the last vestiges of European colonization and struggles are still being felt, and in this case, the most confused region in the plane, the Americas and in the Americas, the Province of Quebec. Montreal brings together the old, the new, the irreverent. A man walks down the street purchasing illusions.
-Hi
-Hi
-How are you
-Fine
-What are you up to
-Nothing, really.
-When are you coming back?
The same question asked over and over again. His stories or conquering techniques would lead the listener- like the old natives- to fall again and again until the conquest and the fall was the only source of pleasure.
PIERCING EYES IN QUEBEC
One hour of life
With piercing eyes
Servicing
Like any other job
Speaking in languages
We don’t understand
Just touch
No words.
One hour of life
With piercing eyes
Grasping
Slow hands move across
Not finding the road
We can’t take
Just touch
No words
Piercing eyes.
One hour to live
Leaving
The road not taken
The job incomplete
Will to dance for someone else.
One day I had a prodigal son who loved me so much
Water your plants, growing alone rarely works
Not my son, he watered me to further grow
Pour more soil, plants need to stand alone
THE BORDER
Aphrodite stopped at the border
Twelve thousands pesos worth of/Eros
To be delivered, not longer allowed
The tiny cabins of dancing guards
Stopped Aphrodite
From crossing the border
Merchandise destroyed
Aphrodite left Pointes Rouses
A guard opened the gate
Piercing Eyes checked the pass
Obsolete, must go back.
The gods stopped all love at the border
Aphrodite must not enter Quebec.
NAKED DANCES
And one day you will see me not
Like the old man who farts a lot
With a need for love greater than a ho
One day you will see me not
Begging for attention and response
But the old man who could have a talk.
Loneliness was undressed
When you rubbed my back
And told me to go away
For the weekend, in Quebec
Loneliness speaks wordless worlds
In mirrors reflecting rubbed backs
And your hand.
CAMPUS BAR
(Where desires are sold)
Desires, ten dollars each
Begs the man for more
Or less
To dance by himself
As Piercing Eyes stare
On body not to be kissed
Breath on it
Dance by yourself
No stage is too small
Dance to be alone
Begs the man for more
Or less, less
The dancing booth is closed
Desires, ten dollars each
Begs the man, no more
As Piercing Eyes dances
For another man.
LANGUAGES
A poet in Montreal unable to speak French
Danced all by himself
The city did not forgive the foreigner in dark skin
Steps of Spanish boots bought in Saint Catherine
Kept the poet from dancing with the other.
Montreal does not forgive men who dance alone
On small rooms in Saint Catherine Street
Dancing tears tell stories of unfulfilled desires
But never the whole truth.
Work and Pleasure went to dance
Desires, ten dollars each
Unfulfilled dreams guaranteed
Pleasure left
As the DJ played a Spanish song
To dance alone, work remained.
Piercing Eyes stabbed my soul
And the abysm opens itself for me to fall
Onto the arms of a Quebecois
Telling me, “Don’t be afraid”
It’s another form of love”.
A smiling cat is followed by a cock
Dancing as he leads the way, the cat
Ordering with its eyes
For the cock to dance alone
For no other reason but to watch
A cock desiring a feline in Montreal.
Rough waters give way to a smile
Heavy breathing becomes a sigh
Moving into the trembling of a heart
And a story awakens to the call of a foreign name.
Nicknames no surname.
A Pearl Fish Out of Water
A pearl dolphin in Montreal swims into the sea
Moving south the dolphin becomes a man
And the man leaves the sea,
The Caribbean sea
Too salty for northern fish.
Breathing slowly rode the blood
On the road to the head
And back to the heart
Is that your name?
Saint Francis, perhaps
Dogs in Saint Catherine
Caressed as my skin envied them
Followed the old and the young
As they dance alone.
Old man holding Flemmish beauty
Darkness cut by direct sun light
Streaks of red hair, glowing
Strong white arm around
Dark brown shadow
By the window
On the chair
Waiting.
Old man holds portrait
Blue skies frame red head
Blue shirt dresses young man
Blue light falls onto his face
Painted by Van Tours in New York.
When trust is back stabbed
Dignity lost, a circular road Leads nowhere turning on itself Alone.
On much later days, as I undressed, looked back: the winds no longer taking me.
Stopped to see the past Money I stole, souls hurt, pain caused my Ego is gone Only time will heal my rot. A man I was not, winds ruled What soul? Sold it all for cheap money, Losing all possibilities of learning To grow. To care. To love.
A gay man acting like a macho
Mixes flavors like a gazpacho
Never becoming a soup
Sometimes broth, often gacho
Stuff, stuff
Machos are made of
Stuff, stuff de mamarrachos
Virtual routes depend on perception; paved roads on good wheels, dextricity and, of course, perception also. Perception, perception, perception has to be repeated again and again and again. Hours spent at page after page searching for Godot led me into all kinds of characters and situations but most of all, hustlers of all kinds. All kinds in all places: the deans who double dip, the male professors whose eyes and desires fell on students and academic help; needed or not, helping the student was the “tool” de force. Hustlers after hustler looking for the treat, a prize, the comfort, the living off the other: old men, young men, old women, young women sucking and learning from each other but most of all sucking. Virtual routes lead into paved ones. Paved one onto the spirit.
A condor took the hustler away,
Squeezing old man eyes on the way out
Feeling the pleasure of pain, seeing not
Himself.
How I wanted to have your masculinity again
On top of me with a hard on, both us
Farewells in bed cut deeper than door kisses
A man is not a man all the time with another man
Once on top dissolves mass below, masculinity not longer lost
Below, lightness takes hold of man topped by man, he dissolves
With your hard on.
Tickling only, please, I am straight,
An opposite used as a conquering tool
In the land occupied by lonely old souls
Fools. The I am not gay, a negative selling desires
Homoerotic sex ads follow routes leading not
Delivery stops just before death arrives
Anti desire pays very well, sells as you squeeze.
Offering services to aging queens left and right,
But pardon us, my male companion and I
We are straight, sexy youth tickling together or alone
Acting, a world becomes gerund, in aging queens realms
Straights helping old men with their laughing tasks
Abilities needed by gays while waiting for the winds
Gay Men Alzheimer associations require tickling therapy
Before it takes you away.
Acting, tickling, males, one, two, three tickling together,
Why are you laughing old man?
Tears follow laughter if the sweet turns sour
Anti straight does not. Against is not part
In matters of identity, sex cheats itself
When selling tickling sessions to old men.
New York City
July 27, 2007
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