I think we read big books to forget that we are living small lives.

3rd grade, chipped tooth from swinging on the monkey-bars that were still wet from the rain. I held your hand even if you were a girl, too. How everybody teased. You kissed me behind the stacks of books in the library. I thought about telling my mom. I wondered if god saw.

2. 13 yr old stealing eyeliner from the drug store across the street. You blowing smoke into my mouth after-school. I was spell-bound. You taught me words like "****". You forgot my birthday and I gave myself a bruise punching you in the face.

3. he was in the hospital. I couldn't sleep for three days. I never told him about any of this. We spoke only on the phone and I wish he were sincere when he was sober. I realized then that people are revolving doors. I still love him. I think about him often. He's a best friend.

4. You made me lose so much blood. I thought we were more than child's play. You showed me your favorite artist and I showed you my soul. You took your coffee dark and I tried so hard not to smoke in front of you. He stared at my legs and I told him I took three different types of pills that are supposed to make me happy and he just kept on staring.

5. loading.....

Paris pines
for us:

...whines for us.

Lurks outside
our window

like a great big
urban puppy.

We're being held
prisoner

( inside our room )

by a vicious sadistic
flu bug

who refuses to
let us go.

We are missing
David Sirosis's

new spoken
word night.

Indeed, all we have seen
of Paris, is:

the inside of
ROOM 411.

ROOM 411
overlooks that famed necropolis

CIMETIÈRE DE MONTMARTRE.

The dead stand
outside

ROOM 411
...and stare.

And...stare.

Envious of even
our flu-ridden life.

They crowd together
in their stone telephone boxes

like fans
at a Dr. Who convention

who have all come
as the Tardis.

"Come...come!"
they cajole.

"Come...join us as
the glorious dead!"
they plead.

See the great
Nijinksy

leap over a moon.

Offenbach, Berlioz et Degas
act a a celebrated Greek Chorus.

The flu grows weary
let's its...grip...slip &

we escape to
a poetry stage &

suddenly it's
PARIS LIT UP &

I'm on
stage.

A bemused amused
Parisian audience

wondering why
the staggery hairy

Irish post stumbles &

wanders in search of
his words &

carrying all of CIMETIÈRE DE MONTMARTRE
about in his ahhhhh...ahhhhh...ahhhhhhhhhh

....shoooooo....head!

In fall, the trees watch
The rise of some butterflies,
When the leaves fall down,
'Cause they have the same color,
But a distinct sense of flight.
Marieta Maglas

Above the black wood
A moonless, deep cobalt, vault
Filled with stellar sparks
Glowered, mute and majestic
Below, coyotes howled and yipped

The beauty of patience is in letting the sun
rise when it rises and shutting our eyes
when the dusk dawns believing the secrets
of life will come in the wake amidst the
crowing of the roosters.