Paris: immutable
permanent marker
dream.

I love you like
the giddy sparkle-crack,
irrational love
found in picture-book fairy tales
I outgrew by
13. You are
my desperate idealism
romanticized into sepia wallpaper
on my laptop screen so
hi there.
Hi, Eiffel Tower.
I think I know your contours
better than a man knows the outlines of his lover but
Paris.
My feelings run
still.
Stiller than still, like
blood gone cold
in love's deep-freeze,
I'm fixated.

Paris, you've got
a residence permit
without an expiration
date
to live in the red beating
city
within me
where no boy has ever kept up his rent and
what,
           what
what does that say about me?
That I reach out my arms to
a rose-tinted Google image
rather than a
tangible embrace waiting for me at my
locker every day.

Why can I serenade you
but not even speak about him?

Paris, I don't think...
I don't think I should love you so
fairly.
For you are my soul investment
but we won't breakeven.
And they warned me,
Paris, they warned me
that you are most beautiful in the rain.
How gorgeous, how
dangerous,
in this age of acidity.

You do not need me
when countless 'artistes'
make love to you
on camera rolls, ivory keys, second-hand
typewriters of silk-faced men.
You do not need me.
Even history has shaped you
into an evenly symmetrical heart
on the map.
You do not need me
but I gorge myself on your
romance
to keep me sane.

Who needs therapy when there's the Champs-Elysées?

And I know that you're crumbling
like, God, yes, the pastries in your abandoned patisseries. I
know that you're crumbling
beneath pink candy wrappers and Casablanca
scene imitations so
that's why
they say you disappoint.

My aunt had a suite at the Ritz but
emailed to tell me
about the soot-stained post office
on rue-this or rue-that and
what,
         what,
what does that say about you?

Is that why they took
all the locks off your eternal bridge,
discarded each love-tale
attached to your hinges
because you were
                               heaving?
Vomiting out love because
it was over-indulgence, like
you'd stuffed yourself on red velvet cupcakes
to find you couldn't digest all that romance and
Paris,

I'm holding you tightly.

My feelings irrationally match
with some product with a price-sticker that reads
'true love'.
Did I tell you I cherish your flaws?
The smoke snuck on buildings and
vines like
veins
bleeding honeysuckles onto windowpanes
and brusque sandwich orders
in some seedy cafe.

I want to crawl
into your chinks and spaces,
make little dark coves
in each little gap where
I can sit and
read.
I can read.

I can read you.

Paris, you are
the postcard that never
came in the mail
but I somehow found
in an empty drawer one day and
I love you.

Paris, I love you.
I'm writing it now but
in some beautiful future,
I'll tell you in person.

More like On Gazelle, ready to relax, going to Paris

Forget about London, forget about LA
Or some sunny exotic island you visited last May
And flashback to that winter of young hopeful romance
Of our days strolling around the cobbled streets of France
Key into the Seine, our love sealed by the locks
Feeding bread crumbs to pigeons as they come by the flock
Lourdes's faith and divinity approves of our entwined hearts
Cannes opens its arms for our new united start

But London sticks to your mind
And now you live in LA
Surfing and lying in the open sun
The sunlight is your summer sleigh
Concrete streets and tall palm trees
There's no more chilly winter breeze

And back in France dies our last chance
Didn't you hear? They're removing the locks
They weigh down the bridge, puts people in danger
I guess love can't always last forever
Sometimes the burden becomes too much
And you burn everything that you touch
The time has come to extinguish the flames
And that's the end of our little French game

Sargent Wilford Niles
        March 9 , 1888 - June 18 , 1918
          Buried somewhere in France

I gaze into the sullen dreams
I wonder about his shallow age
So far from family and all his friends
Did with God he make amends

What a journey did he make
When he left home he made a stake
Left to go fight in a foreign land
So far from these United States

Only thirty years so long
Thirty Happy Birthdays for a song
He hopped the train and then was gone
And left us wondering , right or wrong

you're chugging wine at twenty-three
"i get nervous when you sit too close to me."
after a few, you touch my hand
pull me across the street, "i don't think you understand;
i don’t like the way you love,
shoulder to shoulder, i hate physical touch"
i lean on your bony arm and sigh
sinking beneath me, you’re afraid to die
i should've told you that when i come round
i like them tall, skinny, not afraid to drown

so tell me about those other girls,
was that last one your entire world?
did you float through her rivers, sail across her sea?
did she build you a boat out of your shoulder, neck and knee?
did you let her fingers run through your hair?
did you make contact besides a brown eyed stare?

well i too have a ship full of lovers,
they sing me songs, they pull me under covers
they touch my arm, my cheek, my thigh and lip
they fill the gap where you refuse to fit
i would kiss your face and let you drown
but you’d only let me if my hair were brown

you smell like a memory
a 50 person charter bus only carrying 28
i don't want to let you hear my heartbeat
but i can feel your breath on the inside of my elbow

we have nothing in common
except the day of the week
today we are friday

you are thinking about a two hour time difference
june july and august

'i'm living in the moment,' you say
i nearly kick my legs through the glass of the window
tiny imprints, evidence of a nap on your shoulder

'i'm living in the moment,' you say
and i dip my french fries in your subtle charm
tasting sweet and salty all at once

'i'm living in the moment,' you say
i plant flowers in your ears
but you wait for them to grow

'i'm living in the moment,' you say
'but i'm not that kind of guy'

I hold your hand
In some ancient place,
In some ancient time
Of exaltation.
We are whole,
Together,
Together we are madness,
We are death,
We are the orange light in the flames
And the reddened heat in hell,
We are sin and corruption and intangible fire.
We stand triumphant and giddy and
With stomachs twisting with a newfound light.
We stand over everything,
Over this splendid city,
Knowing that life is transient
And eternity not forever.

We run,
Run euphoric through streets
Of stone and smoke and dying light,
Tasting the air with our sharpened tongues,
Smelling sin,
Lying dizzy on cobblestones
In the summer rain,
Stretching our hands
Into the storm-scarred skies of death
To grasp the greying clouds,
And laughing about blood
And the metallic taste in our mouths.

We are fires,
We are flames,
We are the dust after death,
We are the ash after refinement,
We consume this city,
We consume our own ignited souls,
We consume everything
In our flames of madness.

And at dusk we sit in cafes,
At dusk we sit in cafes,
Alone in the lamplight
With your face bathed in amber.
You compare me to the moon,
And I tell you I am the sun.
For nothing but the hottest, brightest death
Is worthy of our
Burning celestial momentum.

what would you say. if i said. that i thought. that you loved me
just for a second in time. but for now you’re above me
picking chrysanthemums by the lake never felt so appealing
teaching me how to speak cause you're a decent human being
those peachy rose cheeks would you mind if i picked one
surrounded by that soft tan from playing in that big sun
and your name should be Pooh cause your persona is honey
my queen bee yessiree she makes the stickiest worries funny
though hey. yes i know. that you don’t really love me
but one day. it will pass. like the spring. blossom lovely