the simplicity of grandeur (what I want of you)*

every conversation, must have a name,
a blessing and a bane,
every poem, twice as much,
twice the same, a division fine
tween the holy and the mundane

an end, a start and
a finishing line,
untitled, it is without grandeur,
difficult to understand,
every grande boulevard, every country road must be either ,
either be an Avenue des Champs-Élysées, ou Route Napoléon,
each with a unique simplicity, et histoire individuelle,
like the persons who traverse it with eyes thirsty to learn
all about those who preceded their voyage

want nothing but seek everything:

the comprehension and the mystery of the next verse,
where the potion of poetic notion came from,
beg that any scratching is genteel, distingué, sans sang,
how you you breathe and see the smell of wet cobblestones,
how you hear them talking and what tales they hint of,
but never reveal the ending-prematurely?

what I want is what you want.

self portraits realized, that each a particle of the mystery,
self portraits that ask, and answer, but forever insufficient,

what is the idea of you?

Quelle est l'idée de toi?

what is naturel, what is imaginary,
to be a visitor in your museum,
your ******, a voice that listens to the answers,
a mail recipient to  what ever you wish to enclose,
in the poems that make perfect
no sense, that are yet, fully comprehensible,
grand, in their simplicity*

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6:21pm