In my absence
My mind has been doing back-flips,
back-spins and hand-springs.

They really should be called head-springs.'

Off a spring board I began vaulting.
Trying to spin, tumble, turn des pairs
of thoughts stuck in the landing area

Threw a little french in there for ya.

Grasping at hysteria asymmetrically with sanity
must be stronger than anxiety. Like a glass coat, it blankets me
however you can see to the core, translucent rings of a tree.

Walking the balance beam
between life and suicide sporadically.
Being pushed on both sides by a jet stream

Surviving is a pipe dream because we are all dying.

Once again I am on the floor. However,
I am implored to look forward by poetic neighbors.
All I gotta do is knock on their door and they'll gladly give me a cup of esprit de corps.

More french, Au revoir

Shakespeare and Company bookstore: breathing heaving cliché that works in and around the tourists, film crews, American writers, and 17 year old exchange student with only a green cardboard metro ticket and 13 francs in her pocket, and without a squeak for anyone, except the cat upstairs - both curled on the dusty black velvet cushion under handwritten letters punctuated by wedding photos: boasts of great romances opened there at 37 rue de la Bûcherie. Hearts stolen alongside honest paperback purchases.

Three years later she's back. Spotted when speaking up to fill someone else's mind-blank over a title,  he strides over: angular features, expensive coat, older. (She carefully turns the cover of her book away.)

Invites her for a café noisette. Invites her to talk books. Invites her to talk philosophy. Invites her for a drink out in the lazy afternoon haze.  Invites her for a Nutella crêpe. Invites her to wander through Paris finishing at a basement down under the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. Locks the door when her back is turned. Trapped. He flicks off the switch for his smile.

Ah, Paris. Ah, Shakespeare and Company. Ah, Shakespeare and company and your romantic clichés.



_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Assise sur tes genoux, les yeux levés vers ton visage
Fatigué par les souvenirs d’une lointaine tristesse,
Je regarde ta figure souriante et marquée par l’âge,
Je suis du bout des doigts les preuves de ta vieillesse.
Chaque creux qui vit à l’ombre de ton front
Me renvoie à un instant de ton passé profond,
Tous tes sourires, tes larmes et tes soucis
Me rappellent qu’il y a une histoire derrière ces plis.
Grand-Père, je dois avouer que ton visage froissé
Me montrent toutes les épreuves que tu as dû traverser.

There's something unusual in the data
Something wrong with the date
Something you knew you'd try later
The way you said you'd lose weight
You see people in pornography
You see the crackle in realtime
You see the insects crossing the street
The déjà vu in rhyme not really heard
An incessant abuse of my better words
Occupation conducted behind clouds
And up on the wires here cometh the birds
Swoop down and peck them
stir up the crowds, and consume everything
Eating all that lies in the wake of Men
Mould, a fungus, a stain and a sting
We hope you never come back again
We hope you drown ...
In our Epiphany of Boiling Water

I feel my opposable thumbs
The taste of blood in my mouth
The galactic waves have swallowed us
the shock is hitting our bodies
slower and faster
all at once eyes go black

reason is no longer
instinct is our only conscious
lives are minimal
men driven by procreation;women by fear

hearts feign
claws sharpen
jaws unfurl
reality manifests;
we are all animals

Bonn Prostitutes working the streets
now pay twice for displaying their treats.
Not content with the tax they extort,
for plying the world's oldest profession.
Now Politicians, whores of a sort,
want more money despite the recession.
Now to make the sin tax yield sweeter
Certain streets now have Prostitute meters.
Six Euros a night is the rate
for these girls who have more than one “date”
So if your “dame des abends” says “Antreiben! ”
as the clocks ticking down on the evening.
She has a legitimate worry
in telling her"boyfriend" to hurry.
In Bonn, the meter is running
and only the meter maid’s coming!

Saturday I'll be 19.
What an odd age to be,
as I have quite a lot to show for it.
I've felt higher than a goddess,
and I've felt lower than an outcast.
I've seen my family so put together,
and I've watched my family fall in pieces.
I've made a neighborhood of boxes in St. Joseph, Missouri.
and I've packed boxes and moved to Phoenix, Arizona.
I've been innocent,
and I've done things I swore I'd never do (and enjoyed it.)
I've been parasailing.
I've snuck out and went to Des Moines, Iowa, for a concert (and got caught.)
I've maintained a relationship with my God.
I've donated blood.
I've fallen in love (it's horrible, 0/10 would not recommend.)
But my biggest success of all,
it's managing to live through it all.
Here I am
and the time is now
to be the oddest age in the book
19.

hier soir, j’ai rencontré un gars souriant,
et détesté celui qui fronçait ses sourcils
j’ai pris un autre dans mes bras,
et traité l’inconnu de “enculé”
je me suis offerte au gars hideux,
et rêvé de l’autre qui me dégoûte autant

je pense à aucun de ces gars,
qu’à celui qui sait que j’ai des bleus
sur mes jambes

meet one who smiles,
hate the other who frowns,
hold the one you know,
insult the other that you don’t,
message the one who disgusts you,
dream of another who does the same,

care about none of them
& think only of the one who
noticed your bruises