I’m offered a stale beer; the can has the taste of lipstick.
A small group of young clean men dances around a girl.
There’s a dark drive out there, it shows in their slick eyes.
I wake up sweating
from the sound of clenched teeth.
Students discuss the latest opinion about Walker Evans, their backs against the wet Parisian grey.
Tour people look up at me, though they don’t see me. They imagine what I am
until they forget
at the first chance they have.
There’s something about neon lights. Especially turquoise or red ones. Like a night dress for hotels, restaurants and such,
a curious and tempting invitation, the city is teasing but I want to stay home.
My right hand is bloodied. Some young kids got mugged, the smallest his nose broken.
"Is Paris always like this" they ask me. I know how a few foreign punches feel like, so I said no.
The music was the sound of gold sunset moving through tree branches and leaves.
Gutter water still shines under the flickering street lights.
I’m sort of part of the jungle now, walking in my sweats with a bag of dirty clothes amidst the gaze of foreigners
coming to witness the real Paris.
The smell of sudden rain on hot cement flows through the windows and inside modest rooms.
Some of the occupants defy timidly the running water with a hand or an arm, while others wash their face with a smile,
try to rub in the scent that had been missing for so long.
Faint voices jolt me every now and then. Cries brought to me by the wind. Children cries, sharp and sinister in the distorting wind.
She looked at my paintings and didn’t say a word. No remarks, no compliments. She had yet said she liked guys who do things.
She read my book facing me and discussed rhymes for a while.
Sometimes I watch the city night
until its heavy darkness covers me up,
until my own breath is heard from a distance.
The suburb has a way of sharing loneliness in the gentle stroke of leaves and the continuous wail of the highway in the distance.
The wonderful summer blend of sweaty faces, jeans & leather scraping against the burning concrete river, boots heavy in the thick air,
silhouettes rummaging thru shattered bottle glass. The time has slowed down; in the red fog a few people speak up every now and then
and pretend to stare at each other behind their shades.
A group of girls smoke a brown cigarette in the subway
ashes blown away in the underground wind.
They scream at the view of green shades of hard rain covering up the city
in waves of haunting blasts and wet
lasting footsteps thru the streets.