little ladies
than dead exactly dance
in my head,precisely
dance where danced la guerre.

Mimi à
la voix fragile
qui chatouille Des
Italiens

the putain with the ivory throat
Marie Louise Lallemand
n’est-ce pas que je suis belle
chéri? les anglais m’aiment
tous,les américains
aussi….”bon dos, bon cul de Paris”(Marie
Vierge
Priez
Pour
Nous)

with the
long lips of
Lucienne which dangle
the old men and hot
men se promènent
doucement le soir(ladies

accurately dead les anglais
sont gentils et les américains
aussi,ils payent bien les américains dance

exactly in my brain voulez
vous coucher avec
moi? Non? pourquoi?)

ladies skilfully
dead precisely dance
where has danced la
guerre j’m'appelle
Manon,cinq rue Henri Mounier
voulez-vous coucher avec moi?
te ferai Mimi
te ferai Minette,
dead exactly dance
si vous voulez
chatouiller
mon lézard ladies suddenly
j’m'en fous des nègres

                        (in the twilight of Paris
Marie Louise with queenly
legs cinq rue Henri
Mounier a little love
begs,Mimi with the body
like une boîte à joujoux, want nice sleep?
toutes les petites femmes exactes
qui dansent toujours in my
head dis donc,Paris

ta gorge mystérieuse
pourquoi se promène-t-elle,pourquoi
éclate ta voix
fragile couleur de pivoine?)

                                with the
long lips of Lucienne which
dangle the old men and hot men
precisely dance in my head
ladies carefully dead

By Blue Hour Magazine

I looked for her on the rooftops of Brooklyn,
the makeshift balconies of Manhattan,
and the subway in between.

On the mountaintops of Spain,
the ***** pubs of Dublin,
and every European train.

On southern country roads,
and the foothills of Tennessee,
and a lake house preserving childhood dreams.

In the classrooms of philosophers and mystics,
the offices of scholars,
and the garden of a Buddhist.

In a home painted yellow,
behind an ill-fitting apron,
and white picket fence.

In the cramped apartments of men who wrote,
and drank,
and beneath the sheets of those who understood.

On the folded pages of library books,
the texture of painted canvas,
and the sound of piano keys.

I looked for her through my bedroom window,
barefoot and hardly clothed,
not lonely, but alone.

I looked for her,
and did not find her,
but instead, created her.

The cicadas are singing hymns, my dear,
the wind is lifting your hair like a wing
of some bright-flowing canary
and the juniper, bluebells, the ivy and moss,
ma fifille, ma mie, ma minette, ma poupée,
fleur éternelle de printemps, ma mie, ma mie,
in their first sweet spasms of spring
can hardly compare to fluttering fall
of your slip as it ghosts past my knee.