Scattered Paris Poems

Something akin to belonging

wraps you in

slowly, gradually

growing, yearning and loving.

The city lives and breathes

and moves

and I'm taking off

my bra and pants.

I'm only 20,

but my bones are tired

from carrying all this weight.

They’re breaking under you.

I take pictures of the

underbellies of bridges

and Skelly’s face.

Amazed at everything they see.

I manage to capture

the moment

their eyes go wide and their

jaw begins to drop

I wonder what happens

to the couples whose locks

got taken down from the

Pont des Arts.

[thick dark hair]

[creamy pale skin]

[extra meat around my bones]

I could have modeled for the impressionists.

I smile

he smiles

he asks me out

he flirts I’m in shock

He talks about about what's in our hearts

and the Pont des Arts

and love and says the word  "lovers"

while pointing at the space between us.

(i’m not sure if my fear

was because he was a stranger

or because he talked about love

and pointed at me)

Shakespeare and Company, Shakespeare and friends,

all of the ghosts and tumbleweeds.

George Whitman was a hoarder

and "Paris is like swiss cheese.”

(“don’t think

living in Paris

will make you

a writer”)

Laugh, smoke, wander

don’t get lost

try to walk to the Eiffel Tower.

The trains close at 1.

In Brussels

the world is falling apart.

Read the news

text mom: I’m fine.

Cortázar’s grave, 23.

Yellow flowers.

February 12th.

I’m lost once more.

(after a few drinks, sometime before midnight at a jazz club in paris)

          Does deinking and listening to jazz make me an honorsry fitz?

          If slcohol was banned in the stayed id move to paris too

          (Id move go patid anyway)

TRANSLATION:

          Does drinking and listening to jazz make me an honorary Fitzgerald?

          If alcohol was banned in the States I'd move to Paris too

          (I'd move to Paris anyway)

Something akin to believing.

I’m not there yet.

I light a candle for my father.

I've lit candles in every church for you.

It happens

planning a reunion

I feel like a hostess

(i feel home)

capture the moment the light changes

read Ginsberg at Apollinaire’s grave

leave a purple kiss at Wilde’s grave

laugh because he’s such a diva

One last church

stained glass windows

floor to ceiling

I feel something.

Maybe

God exists.

Maybe

he lives in Paris.

There’s tragedy in every brushstroke.

Je ne vex pas me quitter

homesickness

missing home as I go home

homeward bound but I want to go back

I have unfinished business in Paris.

Paris is never being

finished