dad's day

happy father's day from the paris airport.

Pont de la Concorde

granite bones stained black with age
remains. silent screams static on the page,  
history caged the age of kings ends in rage

granite cells revolution torn asunder
Frankenstein for tourists to float under
look up in wonder. would stone remember?

granite eyes saw huddled masses cast in
yearning to be free from prison bastion
tattooing names, confessions, dated sin

granite skin imprinted. liberty’s nadir
dissidence, repression, secrecy’s lair
are the scars still there? did stone care?

granite ears heard a thousand score
prayers for mercy. did they pity poor
wretches hidden behind an iron door

granite hearts pumping black blood oil
poison. a dark reward for a life of toil
only escape, from this mortal coil

granite nerves once screamed pain
torn shrieking in the hurricane
cast down when the storm came

granite mouth permanent grimace
frowning down on mirrors surface
forced to reflect on time’s abuses

granite souls still feel the embers
screams, tears and pleas. surrender
stone wept from July to November

Cafe Dome

sunlit café ashtray sparkles steel scarred with age
dimpled with sacred scorch marks and ancient ash stains
try to imagine with your nose. try to taste
         a thousand and twelve Gauloise Blondes 
         two hundred fifty seven Winston Specials 
         three thousand thirty nine Lucky Strikes
         four hundred sixty six hand-rolled Drums
         five thousand twenty five Marlboro Lights
         (all this in the past month)
gain a sense of the scent that must linger
in this haven for secondhand smokers, inhaling
the night with their beer, escaping their cares
poisoning their chairs. the pale Beachwood tables
stained an ashen beige. worn woven wicker stools
stained legs and holes in the weave

paris high art - the louvre

Synthetic Waltz

“oh maker tell me did you know that this love would burn so yellow
becoming orange and in its time explode from grey to black then bloody wine
oh maker have you ever loved or known just what it was
I cant imagine the bitter end of all the beauty that we’re living in”
-Janelle Monae, “Oh Maker”

i.
moonlit confessional outside l’arc electronique. she is
the night, dark and mysterious, a hint of synthetic light
glinting yellow from the rim of the glass in her hand
hers is a song unheard sung across time. an elegy
meant for ears divine, techno dub heaven sent
the clouds check wetness. but lighting flashes
heat storm in the heart of the desert neon moon
his shadow cast across the harsh fluorescent
eclipses her. a light switch back to the task
at hand.

“Ça va?”         “ca va bien, nous dansons?”

her black and white suit sets off his nicely
her arm through his relaxed yet poised, unmoving

“Mademoiselle, après vous”     “merci mon amour”

he follows her onto the tessellated dance floor
his steps pulse prismatic fractal ripples in his wake

“Vous prenez la chanson” “le Waltz Synthétique, sil vous plait DJ”

hips sway as the DJ plays their song. ancient
melody refracted through the prism of the age
the first steps remain the same

ii.
         heavenly choir beaming out the tune 
she thinks to herself il faut que executez vite
              spring coils subtly in his arms 
                                            the beat drops. 

          propelling demanding propulsive and deep 
obedient feet sweep into the song and sing along
       spinning arpeggio glances locked with aplomb 
              ticking time bomb graceful as a flashing leg 
                        revealing a snub nosed friend on her ankle  
his heart pounds and pupils dilate.
                   but still he dances. with a razor ace up his sleeve  
           her hair occludes her eyes. artificial disguised 
     sand snake dancer cancer creeping ever closer 
judging the distance from hand to holster

they draw.
      blade breaks the wake
              bullet creases caresses
                            red blood. 
                                     blue blood. 
                                            eyes grown ruthless 

iii.
“never bring a knife to a gun fight. time to test that one”

his anger is a white hot yellow flame flaring inside of him
his wound is a candle beside it burning bloodwine oil igniting
temper. betrayal is blue made purple under dance floor lights
a slash in a side reveals synthetic secrets. droplets bead
and fall in his eyes a gash in his temple so nearly his death
face a red mask of rage staining his suit at the nape

“merde”

she reloads as she drops to her knees. he dances
across electric sheep in pursuit of a damsel deadly
blue Danube waltz past gunfire shredding the air
carving his way forward blade slips from sleeve
breeze at his back as he slides for the kill
floor blooms with petals of colorful krill
tags the bag and plants a spike in her grill

iv.
sparks flew when they first locked eyes
and now sparks fly from her impaled eye
circuits exposed and coolant blood pools
invert his reflection. he steps past smashed
ruined facemask with a crack in the façade
spark flares sulfur head ignites packed tabac
the end becoming orange, fading grey to black
“was it worth the price you paid
was your pride so great
to think you could cheat fate?”
he asks her ruined ear as the last title plays
and the film flickers fin in her eyes
and he waltzes away with his pain and his lies

paris graffiti

Ode to A Busker

habitual ritual game trails worn into forest ruts
deep grooves in a record indicate rare cuts
scars mar a smooth face until it rusts

canyons worn into leather roar rivers through cowhides
water runs rivulets singing through creased smiles
old crows feet frame coal baby blues old as lies

squeak and creak. and the creek’s bones ache late at night
even a stream’s joints get tight. even steam needs the light
dying to find the lost symphony where water and ice fight

a face is the map of a life. composed by delicate hands
score read by the fingers of a violinist dancing in the sand
crafting music to make stones cry until the hills stand

gap toothed mountainous grin the legacy of sins onstage
childlike joy within weeping agates in a net of wrinkled age
rocky fingers caress sweet strings into a story with no page

cry the laughter of the babbling brook
sing a story not found in any book
no one spares a dollar or a look