March 16th, 2013 § § permalink
Exiled to the rooftops, he sat contemplating the late afternoon settling on the skyline of Paris. His shoulders sore from hauling clothes up seven flights of stairs. He’d only been there two days but the ashtray already teemed with tiny butts.
The winter clouds resisted the vernal sun, but evaporated into the eager sky. The bustle of the city echoed below on the streets just above the Grand Boulevards in a neighborhood that he didn’t recognize. In another situation he would have been happy, soaking in the sense of possibility the Parisian spring always promises. As it was, he only felt abandoned.
This wasn’t the first time he had started over. When Sarah had left him years ago he’d ended up living in a van. What a long winter that had been. If nothing else he had a room now, though not much bigger than that damn Dodge. Solitude’s sudden silence hollowed his bones. » Read more «
June 14th, 2012 § § permalink
La prima volta che incontrai il Rotolo era arrivato a Parigi da poco. Avevo appena organizzato una gita collettiva con altri poveri poeti parigini per vedere la prima mondiale del film Sulla Strada di Walter Salles e una visita gratuita al Museo di lettere e manoscritti era compresa nel prezzo del biglietto, come parte della massiva campagna mediatica per l’uscita del film. Poiché avevo pensato che non avrei mai avuto l’occasione di vedere il Rotolo originale (appartiene ad un privato e può essere visto dal pubblico soltanto in una manciata di mostre sparse attraverso il globo a intervalli irregolari), ho corso verso la fermata della metropolitana più vicina con il mio ingresso libero e mi sono precipitato sulla rive gauche. » Read more «
February 17th, 2012 § § permalink
I want to go out
Oh shit, it’s raining again
I’ll write a haiku
August 4th, 2011 § § permalink
little jean started up the six flights of stairs staying close to the wall. the oblong set of semi-spirals in that old parisian construction sloped inward. this gave him the impression that he would someday slide and fall to his death. the worn wooden railing that creaked and wobbled without ever touching it gave no reprise to his fears. he moved carefully around each corner passing along the wall and tried not to look. he held two plastic sacs, one in each hand, at an arm’s length to avoid bumping them into the wall. the wine bottles clunked dully and echoed against the hard stone.
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April 24th, 2011 § § permalink
southbound line five is the best place to commit suicide, in Paris. he thought standing at the platform each week on wednesday. twentyfive past five both in age and time the métro lines increase rate and speed to accommodate the multitude of masses. the first french office cogs and public servants returning. home early to beat the rush hour rabbit hole derby. little by little increasing with : students shuffling from books to bars, evening bistro shifts beginning. with : quick aperitif and dinner no later than eight though happy hour ends at ten. toiling youth but part-time, mobile and constantly moving. through the underground city.
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