There was a  tower, cellular,  and a flea market but no Louvre,
people spoke in accent, the cuisine was Haute- collards
and black-eyed peas-  the cathedral was named
First Baptist Church, that day I was not in Paris.

Still, I felt like I had several attractions to tour.
The river , not grand as the Seine,
that is more a trickle has been rumored to hold fish.
That day I saw a troubador, that day I was not in Paris.

A man with a bicycle and a six string guitar, rested in the Church
parking lot, played and sung a song for an hour. He left pushing his
bike his guitar again on his back, going I presume
to someplace not Paris.

That day I saw an old woman go into Dollar General, she didn't come out for three hours. But, when she did she had two packages she carefully loaded into the trunk of her Lincoln. I imagined she purchased the latest fashion to parade that night down at the corner saloon. That was a day I was not in Paris.

I did not miss Paris. I missed nothing. I had a sunny day, and fresh air,
and a vision of not Paris, that day.

Your heart - all knowing, that finds me
blooming, a lotus flower unfurling
sepals and petals, morning yellow
of golden birds, gilded meadows
of grasses green, your wisdom eyes
of flashing fields that shine
we are infinitely interwoven by
the sacred that is unspoken
by all that is divine.

I cave in to
spelunking away in the dark
I dive under the tall waves to find the bottom
and let  the rollers pass
build a refuge of sticks and grass
so far from humanity reality contact
of anyone forcing me to see
anything but my make believe
world  its fantasia
ostrich like creatures that inhabit me
a mile of mole hills make for a way out
an escape in case the world crashes around my
veil of saran wrap coverings yellowed
translucent cataracts and vein popping
retinas.

i sit and watch,
the dust motes dance
in the stream of sunlight

the computer hums and burbles
like and old friend, intent on
sharing the latest gossip

last years detrius of papers
and unfinished lists, new job lists
teeter in the corner....

my backside has again grown
a size too ample,
for my ergonomic  chair

my brain is lax and lazy
slow to grind into gear....

this is the awkward,
i don't want to be here
start to the years marathon

it is the organizing of details
the preparation of the course

it is meetings and more meetings
dull, dry, academic, with others who
are in the same boat, those who want to
change course midstream, those who want to
tread water and those who are new to the game
rowing in circles with much enthusiasm, but little boatcraft


i, at present am resting oars, knowing this is the first
of many races, knowing the course, tho set, will change
when the students arrive, it is then the rapids come into play
and it is then, my energy, is required.

til then i cruise
and drink copious amounts of caffiene
in my air conditioned office....
watching the air, take dust motes,
for a ride.

ends so ― spiralling after
egg (that other half of our
chains) & setting gills

in gristled knot that buds
legs as tadpoles do & blow-
hole ears halfway down

the back & low-set eye
alien as featherless chick ―
ah we have peered into

that shared **** whose
blasto-flesh runs its gauntlet
of fowl & fish so fused at

the tail nothing can be told
apart ― is this why when i am
late i find in upstairs dark

you ― on placenta duvet &
hunched round self as wom-
bed ones are? ― as though

i had just returned from
all eternity to catch you
naked out sleepwalking

space without even
navel-twisted purpled
rope to hold you

Mario Petrucci, from *i tulips

the curve of the beach
is outlined in a murky red today
the kelp has turned in the heat

on the sand the little *****
make little spheres and bubbles


where the damp meets dry
a sandcastle slowly loses form
as the wind takes it away
grain by grain


on the rocks three kids clamber
shouting and pointing poking sticks
into the pooled worlds

up on the grass, sit two old gents
and the clamour of seagulls that
are being fed skerricks of fat golden chips

i stand admist all this feet in the water
work pants rolled up, shirt tails out
breathing in the saltspray
looking to the horizon
as it begins to colour  the evening sky

at my feet swirl ribbons of red brown kelp


it has been an unseasonably hot summer

She stopped at the light
outside the Double Drop D in Cortez
and looked me over

I was day dreaming about a girl
with finger cymbals
between shows

Her top was down
and I could hear Neil Young
singing Cinnamon Girl
on the radio

...*i could be happy
the rest of my life..

Back where I used to roam
beyond the mulberry hills
running from sudden black storms,
torrential August monsoons
soaked thoroughly through

Oh, to be a motherless child of the hills, again
quick to dance away the depths of lonely
always looking to the sea for distraction
and possibility

After a storm, I listened for life
how the hilly flowers shined, alive with bees
the birds and buzz all about the field
in a world, that was everything real to me
and made all the difference, in knowing
what it was to be free

While glints of gold skimmed the horizon
I'd dry my shoes in the last hour of the sun
dreaming to live right there, where I belonged
dreading the long dragging back home