Pourtant, les papillons

(for Maxime)

Je n’ai pas travaillé ce jour-là mais tu étais

C’était la deuxième fois que j’ai dormi chez toi

En rêvant, dans les bras de Morphée, je pouvais entendre à peine ta voix,

un murmure de vent : doux et séduisant.

Tu me suscitais l’éveil

J’ai ressenti ton haleine –

mélodieuse comme l’amour veritable –

ma respiration fut coupée

voltigeant papillonnant me caressait

et mes lèvres t’ont cherché :

ton toucher,

ta peau,

les poil courts de ta joue –

Ils ont trouvé

Là – enchâssé dans ta bouche :

Le saveur du ciel,

La chaleur du soleil,

La lueur de chaque étoile…

Même aigre-doux : un poison tellement accueillant

Mais ce que je voulais c’était tout prendre.

Indiquant :

Le début d’une autre journée :

La fin d’un rêve sublime :

qui m’effleure chaque fois que je ferme les yeux.



Walk of specimen…waiting room…long wide corridor, suspended in space and time…white walls and silver windows…people dressed in white.
You enter, nothing has changed.
Our hands find each other and clasp tight, and solder into an earth.
With my free hand, I grab your collar, pulling you closer,
“Why did I have to wait so long for you?”
There is a nuance of desperation in my voice…
Your eyes, voice…words and embrace reassure.
You’ve come to take me home

In the outskirts of London

Angry drivers and numerous mosques
pepper the block concrete landscape.
A wide slab-like building
with its many horizontal eyes-like-flies
stands high above all else. A
Guilty woman smoking in Her back
garden; she wears a burgundy bathrobe
– of a quality and brand unnoticed –
tied tightly at her waste*. Her eyes dart
about as she pretends to check the dryness
of the laundry hanging on the line: she
thinks no one sees…at least not anyone
that matters to her.
A Jewess looking on
Contemplating an awkward existence,
painting imaginary 90 degree angles in the
overcast sky, and waiting for rain
forecast for tomorrow.

*waist is not intended for this post

Elektra’s garden

A congregation of multicoloured Empty
seats of varying sizes, the remains of a
circle of men Poking at an enraged fire the
preceding night, make shadows like a
tripped out clock, around terracotta
herringbone titles
Red-breasted robin sunning its wings
Standing amongst the sound still a little
yellow blades of green grass bending and
twisting to the April Michigan breeze
welcoming Spring.

Someone’s reality

She hears the call of “the idolatry of money”, a G-d Nouveau :
Pure, dangerous yet excited capitalism
The thought of brings into reality a sort of Darwinism that destroys true, natural, beauty with cosmetic surgery
(“inadequacies” that Nature will remind her of when a child is born naturally from his XY and her XX loins)
But for now, she will take superficial pleasure in her contrived-under-the-knife-beauty
Work tirelessly to encourage others to feel as insecure – if not more for a play of power – as she
Her husband, not lacking the same inferior-sorry-superior qualities will remind her of how her ass is “no longer as firm as it used to be” (as he fantasizes about the young he-doesn’t-know-it’s-a-tranny’s bubble butt) and that she’s getting too fat to excite his one-eyed snake into action (he’s never really felt it for her is what he means but he feels her money)
Ah this is the good life

AC pls

Eyes squint to the blinding, unflinching light of summer sunshine
Air lays itself on skin in the form of a damp blanket, not very comforting
Exhaling starts numerously, like a dog panting to keep cool
The “crank” finds its way to the pensive jaw of a body unprepared fo its own perspiration, let alone others’
Tip toe-ing underground to Opéra – for that rendez-vous – the sticky vinyl of bleu metro line 7 seats radiates heat
The cushion draws in unwilling bones, and fat argues to not be left alone (muscles have vacated this house)
Another being occupies the other half of the dirty bench seat : an alliaceous presence
Anxiety expands everything
Then, the surround of others who think that they should share space with people other than themselves –
Never mind what you think !
It’s hardly a pleasant ride
but when it stops
Above ground again, the air is more than peppered with pollution
But it’s less dense
And the invitation of friends
Shines a light brighter and more soothing than realised
Looking out across the Seine, refracting crippling light
It’s evident that su;;er has finally arrived
“Santa !” The clink of beverage glass and smiles on hidden hearts.

Owed to the rain

let the rain cleanse you
let it fall upon your silvery locks
and when it rains heavily,
let it soak through your shoes to your socks
let the rain’s mist lift up your unrealised dreams
as it drips onto your brolley
let it soothe your inner child
whenever you leap, splash and folly
Let live the rain

(inspired by Langston Hughes)

A break from the office

Rows of laminated veneer with read warning signs,
are surrounded by austere bureaucratic decor:
sterile, much like a hospital.
In contrast, warm salutations “Welcome”
with an exclamation point
“…to Paris” blink on cornered screens.
The inching in to my personal space by a family of children
gives me the feeling of my faith.
A few moments later, crossing into another section of this assembly,
a wigged woman named Audrey sparks the word: Ezra in my mind…
As I sit, alone and waiting, a tiny feather floats up into air,
a massive black fly zings through the room, up near the perforated ceiling.
I look around, and this time it’s me that moves towards the children.
I believe they are eight.
“Shalom” I say with smile, followed by
“happy Chanukah”
And in return they fire off Hebrew and French, and
For a moment, I’m at home.

jazz night

The books wallpapered to alcove
Caricature of French noses on bass
The failed intellectual on drums
The well postured pianist whose fingers
crawl like crabs across the ivories
fakely smiling
The musicians wincing as if trying to squeeze one out
(I know, how crude!)
The music sublime
and gaffs of jazz aficionados clap intermittently
Whose pleasure other than mine?
To soak in the foggy light, stifled under
iron, funnel-like helmets
It’s another Friday night.


the disconcertion of the evening before yesterday still clings
to my skin like the sweat from last night’s nightmare
smoke and stale perfume – its base essence faded by
several washes –
hang on heavy air
being cat-called by other thugs
they know I’d never be interested
indicative of small minds:
weakness and an insistence to control
“simple” “human” actions
ooze their filth, abase the quality of this life
and they continue to objectify and dehumanize
“the motherfuckers” I scream inside;
peaks my anger :
people only just died
have you ignored the lesson
executed in that violence
and the fear in its aftermath?
suspicion lingers like ghostly cigar smoke
to live until we die is freshly in our wishes
and the people divide
it’s the way they think, their way to survive.