Each afternoon in June,
I loiter-linger on the corner of 37th avenue,
Both eyes asleep,
A summer’s sunset smile on my face,
A flock of fairies in free float round my head.

My habit, a daily pause,
Plant my haunch against the blue barrel mail box,  
Old empty drum, anachronism, stubborn antique.

I cringe at the mad jazz of shrieks and horns on cue,
The hatter’s rush at end of day,
There is purpose in this cacophony,
My city boasts and brags with noise,
Intoxicated on aroma,
A frequency with every smell.

Baptiste’s Pizza owns the breeze at 4 p.m.
Inhale this baker’s breath,
An oven-joy in one warm gust,
Blond baked crust,
Tomatoes boil and bubble cheese,
Salt fresh anchovies, red peppers,
A currency of meats.
I salivate and lick the wind,
Hunger is desire.

Sudden harmony in one sweet waft,
A pleasant jet stream,
A toker passes by,
And gifts me with a 60’s contact high.

A small girl’s mouthful voice,
A jam cram of donuts is my guess.

The rattle, clap and black lung cough,
An old school diesel delivery truck,
The air brakes squeal for release,
It’s quitting time and everything wants to be free

A homeboy,  my local jive,
I know his dreams,
A lacquered finish,
In love with his axe,
You feel me... tap, bump and go.

Vinegar and toxic spice,
A window washer’s delight,
He squeals a squeaky clean

Fresh roses, oh a hopeful night, bonne chance,
The catastrophe of a cigarette,
The killer joy of a fresh cigar,
An uptown girl's stealth perfume,
She knows her prey,
He knows her ploy,
A mid west girl and a downtown boy

Daylight begs to dim,
The sun will witness just enough, no more,
My corner holds its own,
Each afternoon my part in scenes,
I dream,
And never wish, but often wonder,
About the life that might have been.

Y a des jours où ça n'va pas
Aujourd'hui est un jour comme ça.
On a beau se dire: "Souris".
Il y a des jours qui sont ainsi.

Oui mais non, moi ça ne va pas.
Des jours avec, et des jours comme ça.
Aujourd'hui, je pleure et je ris
Le plus souvent seule dans mon lit.

Y a des jours qui sont comme ça.
Des jours où rien ne va.
Et pour moi c'est aujourd'hui
Et ce sera demain aussi...

on the steps of the notre dame
i lost my sense of color
every moonbeam through the
cracked walls of the House of God
danced around me like blue gypsies
performing a ritual upon
every ringlet of hair on my head

in the catacombs of paris
i lost my sense of touch
every skull feeling like silk
dead calcium caressing
the flesh beneath which
my bones were moving
alive and restless

beneath the arc de triomphe
i lost myself
the curve of stone caving in on me
like a Parisian Goliath
and I, a madman David
names of fallen soldiers
engraved upon the walls
breathed back to life
from dust they have returned
they reach into my cerebrum
their stone fingers pulsing
with the hymnals of war
to meet with the battle
of indigos and crimsons coursing
through every nerve of my anatomy

behind the eiffel tower
i lost my art
paris lights beating down
a beast sleeping through the
tides of eulogies and odes
its orphans have to offer

she drank slow but had this skip in her dance.
she ordered me a gin and tonic on the rocks.
she eyed me across the street (i’m losing track of time).
she marched in front of me, leading me
to an apartment. the walls were painted black and the
lights were a shade of blue rain.
there were two floors in the penthouse.
she giggled when i told her how nervous i was.
i felt my glass shake, this mixture of pale ale and oranges
resembled a tsunami.
my eyes convulsed like cracked sidewalks during
earthquakes; my teeth were grinding, (not like a dance to ******
but rather the last lick of hope for the protagonist
in slasher flicks screaming for help).
she told me everything would be okay.
she undressed herself and told me god doesn’t
watch her when she sleeps; rather, he
takes the night off and works overtime in the morning.

i fell in love on the second floor of her apartment,
i don’t know why it took me two stories to tell her.

Every politician, banker,
Financier, and lobbyist
Needs a picture of
A guillotine hanging
In their office, just
Above the door,
So that they can daily
Be reminded, of exactly
What a people are capable,
When pushed to the brink.

She only has a preference of men
Kudos for her
But i'll quit playing pretend
That i don't have a shot
And give it my all
No time to stall
I'll be there to break her fall
Romantic feelings or not
Civic duties, you know?
Can feel her radiance glow
Onto my vision
I look at her like nobody else
But when she's taken by somebody else
I let her be happy
But when that comes crashing down
(I never hope it would)
I'd be there to end the bleeding
Prevent her faith in men from receding
And show her how i make my swift moves
She's a beat i can't get out of my head
I'd hate to see her full of dread
If she never feels the same
Then there's no shame
But i'll give her a sample of my transparent game
You can take the end of my last name
(You read that right)
Anything for you, my dear
But if you'd like to stay friends
Than those feelings will gradually meet the end
But i'm optimistic in my endeavors
My heart won't accept being severed

I'll show her my side
I hope she'll like
Be the best friend
Be the best man
She's ever seen
I want to give her joyous chills down her spleen
From the enticing nature
Of my love

Her existence fits my needs like a glove
I'm easy to love
You doubt yourself but i like to bounce back
Tu es si grand je ne pensais jamais à quelqu'un d'autre pour être avec
Put those words on a recording and play them back
My loneliness is on the attack
But i quite like that

You don't like guys my type
But have you seen the way i type?
Baby, i can blow your mind
If there's even a slight interest there, i'll make the few inches go for a few vast miles.
At the end of the day, you're going to be wishing you would of found me sooner
Or reject me like a sorry sap i am
But in the end, the results are positive to me.

Bébé, ce cœur bat pour vous

one glance

and a story starts
spinning
on the turntable

your heart -
the needle dropped

You are love,
Vous êtes inspiration.  
The focus of my heart,  
L'objectif de cet art.  
  
Love. The chocolate of your skin,  
Love. Votre douce voix.  
Loving you could never be a sin,  
Vous rendre la vie le ciel pour moi.
  
With your lips sweet you paint,  
Vous peindre mon âme rose.  
With your love life will always  
la Vie en Rose.

Death
is
subjective.

Harvests
of
thought
which
stir the
midnight
consolations
churn
and
turn
empty
capacities.



Emotions
which
awaken
yet
cease
all
in
the
space
of
30
spent
seconds,
little
slaughter.


Equinoxes
sprung
and
autumnal
spines
break
flooding
in
a whispered
annihilation.

Expiration
morphs
wasteland
into
sentience
as
Darkness
of
a post
apocalypse
draws
and
sketches
on
a
spent
sheet of
paper.