Lolina.

The days pass too quickly and still we are wasting our lives in the cafe of green and yellow paper. These chairs of antique leather mold around us like chains and something in our being stirs with discomfort.

"Can't you see?" screams the voice of inner monologue; the omniscient voice of dreams, "You are allowing yourself to be trapped! Soon you will be nothing but the smell of coffee and cigarettes and the babble of Spanish chatter!"

But the voice is far off and distant, competing with the draw of necessity and acquaintance. The voice screams clear from across a field of drying grasses and a sun baked river. The voice is fading into the fruits of orchard trees and lost in the sweet bite of nectar.

Once again, the days turn and we are heavy in curls of smoke and becoming our own reflection in this cafe full of mirrors.

021409

The clouds of Montmarte
inhale the buzzing streets
and turn to sorbet
with the dusking light.

Hiding in the shadows
a twinkle of the city
I catch eyes in the distance
coy with a wink.

And youth with a baseball mit
a crack of leather on leather
over French beer; a picnic
and, "Bon journo!"

There is no romance
in looming steel frams
unless Gustav himself
was hopeless with love.

So be my platonic Valentine.
Together over cafe au creme
we will share our hear's desires
of the distant ones we want.

de la Tour Eiffel

Close your eyes; you are there. The entire city is simmering at your feet.

When I die, I will choose to return a pidgeon. I will live my days roosting the steel beams of the Eiffel Tower and I will feed on the crumbs of croissants. I will know the words for awe in every human language. The wind will blow and my feet will hold firm, rooted to cold metal and nothing but my feathers will be moved.

021209

If I could I would
tell you the ways of my teeth
the way that they bite
on gathers of skin and
pull your thoughts
out in the cold.

If I could I would
tell you the ways of my feet
the way that they dance
to the sound of your voice
set tune to their tramp
on the built on fantasy.

le Village

Is it fate that we should find nothing but nutmeg in the electricity flowing current by current through the wires? I would never know, would I? For every appliance in my Spanish flat is frayed and sparking to break circuts and threaten the users.

Electricity is a priviledge. It slides up my arm when my fingers catch between the sockets, and again in between our skin on the moments when you want me too. And do you realize that I am always? I always, always, seem to find room for another bite of ice cream.

But what if I am destined, in denial, a lactose intolerant? What if your sweetness should turn my stomach to stone? I would purge rocks down the path to your feet and all the while you would hold me at the length of your arm. Never would my shape and marble feel the warmth of something beyond your chest.

This hostel bedroom has six beds and a skylight that looks to the stars. I see the clouds sail by the rate of traveller's dreaming. Tomorrow I will stand at the top of the Eiffel Tower and make a wish for us. But until then, I will find the one star through the milk of clouds and wish upon my dreams of you.

One night in Paris.

The water ran all night
to trickle down the surface of
staling teeth and Sangria.
While the night is suddenly
calm

with parting clouds
a looming tower
promising a view
of the city
non-transferable.

This room is foul
as the forgotten brushing
and one hour in Paris
proves the brazen Italian
to ask a girl to coffee.

"Don't you have time
to have just one drink
with me?"
No Sir,
no Sir I don't.

Can't you see?
You are too old for me.
Like a city that whispers,
"Tell me your dreams."
and follows suspicious
down the alleys of Thursday.

Come on baby.

You are turning me-
and I have to distract-
keep me from-

'cause it's all too inappropriate.

While black speakers sing,
surround sound,
"Come on baby,
light my fire."

I am grin-
face in hands
numb with
wanting.

Wine lips for-
fingers twirl with-
a silver chain.
a collar bone.
a wave of-

I watch you
through bangs
and distraction.

Nails bit in-
lips pulled in-
hands in hair and
a fantasy:

this cafe basement
empty
and heat
on old leather.