Havenít you wanted, sometimes, to
walk into some painting, start a new
life? The quiet blues of Monet would
soothe but I donít know how long Iíd
want to stay there. Today Iím in the
mood for something more lively,
say Lautrecís Demimonde. I want
that glitter, heavy sequin nights.
You take the yellow sunshine.
I want the club scene that takes
you out all night. Come on,
wouldnít you, just for an evening or
two? Gaslights and absinthe, even
the queasy night after dawn. Wouldnít
you like to walk into Montmartre
where everything you did or
imagined doing was de rigueur,
pre-Aids with the drinkers and
artists and whores? Donít be so P.C.,
so righteous youíd tell me you havenít
imagined this? Give me the Circus
Fernando, streets where getting stoned
was easy and dancing girls kick high.
Itís just the other side of the canvas,
the thug life, a little lust. It was good
enough for Van Gogh and Lautrec,
Picasso. Canít you hear Satie on the
piano? You wonít be able to miss
Toulouse, bulbous lips, drool. Could
you turn down a night where glee
and strangeness is wide open? Think
of Bob Dylan leaving Hibbing. A little
decadence canít hurt. I want the swirl
of cloth under changing colored lights,
nothing square, nothing safe, want to
can can thru Paris, parting animal
nights, knees you canít wait
to taste flashing
POETRYREPAIRS #217 v15,10.109
Nothing would be less shall we call it what it is, a clichť
than April in Paris. But this poem got started with some
thing I donít think I could do but it reminded me of
Aprils and then three magazines came with Paris
on the cover. Sometimes Iím amazed at all the places
Iím not, lets say Paris since actually itís only March
but in the magazines they are at outdoor cafes which
must be quite chilly now. And I forgot the cigarette
smoke, until I see many in the photographs are holding
what Iím sure isnít a pen. I wondered how they can
always be eating, biting and licking something sweet
and still have the most gorgeous bodies. I wonder too
how my friend, once an actress, so maybe thatís a
clue, could dress up in scanty, naughty, as she puts it
clothes for her husband while I am sitting here in
baggy jeans and torn sweatshirts. Iím wondering if itís
because heís lost his job and she is trying to cheer him up.
I began thinking of Paris when she described the umbrella
she decorated with drops of rain, how she just wore
a garter belt under it. I thought of tear shaped drops of
rain I made for the Junior Promís April in Paris,
long before I felt the wind thru my hair on Pont Neuf.
Itís there in the photograph which I hope is more
original than the idea of the photograph because
I plan to use it on my next book. I wish I could feel
what she must, dolled up, trying to soothe this
man and getting off on it. As for me, only
imagining you, the one with fingers on me,
holding me on the page of a book
could make me as excited
POETRYREPAIRS #217 v15,10.109
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Dave Chappelle, commedian-- "I support anyone's right to be who they want to be.
My question is:
To what extent do I have to participate in your self-image?'
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