The body demands arrangement. I make only perfunctory efforts when momentarily hidden from view, or sometimes I'll completely collapse as if internally detonated then rally back to full-on posture. I stop smiling when my interlocutor turns away and when he looks back at me he doesn't realize it's not the same smile, that it's a freshened smile or replacement smile. The face immediately slackens when I enter my home. The skin exhales. Alone I am homosexualer by degrees, I cross my legs in such a way, I pull certain faces, there are sourful deformations of the lip that should never be proffered in some regions of the United States. In public I tighten up my ship. There's a famous photo of Anne Sexton crossing her legs in such a twisty double helical manner as to invite certain breezy and obvious comments, cheap psychological speculations. I don't wish to be bodily interpreted by uninvested observers. My body and I have no common language and I like it that way. My body and I get by, we communicate with fluent gestures. With others I like to mix it up. If I cross my arms it means I want to go on a themed cruise with you, if I narrow my eyes it means I am scheduled for risky surgery in a Mexican clinic. Sleeping is a problem, I have not settled on a satisfactory configuration of the sleeping body despite years of sometimes rather comical experimentation. I no longer use the pulleys. I'm fooling around with a sidewinder s-shape, it has its merits. I have a morbid fear of swallowing my pride if I fall asleep in an ungainly position.