Saturday, June 14, 2014


In which we revisit Paris, restructure bad poems, and recount our many, many, many flaws.

So I wanted to try this. Made the mistake of reading a book set in Paris and it's worse than ever, the Paris in my head. Dear god the daydreams. So I went looking for a Paris poem (besides Pound's) but Google being what it is, found my old bad one instead. The got an idea about it and needed a clean, well-lighted place to work on it. 'Work' meaning 'rebuild.' Bingo.

And If Paris Opens Herself

And if Paris opens herself to you and I for just one day, we shall dance along
her luminous streets and ford the Seine over a bridge of locks. At the
Louvre we won't visit the victorious nor the enigmatic but linger at
courtyard table, sipping Diet Coke and eating salty frites. We'll
circumnavigate flying buttresses and des foules de gens at
Notre Dame, peer inside at rose windows and apostles,
forget to pray, then use our euros for cheap souvenirs
at the cross-street shop. Upon the roof of a
rumbling red trolley-bus we shall be carried
triumphantly down the Champs d'Elysees,
even as the sun casts a radiant spell
on the somnolent afternoon, we'll
pass by cars and cafes, shoppers
and strollers, an infinite, silent
suspension, or a second,
or long as a lingering
trafficsignal -- ah,
this last lovely
hour, my beau
let us away,
we wing to
Tour Eiffel,
scale the
curves of
Pillar Nord,
our way to the top, where
Paris surrounds us at last,
the city a cloudy dream
from which
we will

No good, but good fun.

You have always worn your flaws upon your sleeve / And I have always buried them deep beneath the ground / Dig them up; let's finish what we've started
There's a hole in my soul / I can't fill it I can't fill it / There's a hole in my soul / Can you fill it? Can you fill it?

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