plagiarism on a beach in france
I’ve imaginated death:
dark rivers, darker seas,
the luminiferous earth,
growing to that darkness
in headlong blind embrace.
I share my thoughts with Joana.
Oh how you’ve changed, amor.
The city is to blame,
its exhumations and exhalations,
obsidian and glass.
Determined ignorance answers
itself, I have no questions.
I study the sand devising a plan
to transfer grains by one and one
from one plane to another.
Here, beyond that one-way circuit,
where a bird may fly without the huddled
souls of passengers on board,
you’ll learn to live and possibly spell.
But the city’s nights they fall
to colorless days
by the unforeseen.
With a silver platter,
a s’il vous plaît
and a pair of glasses,
a hotel waiter intercedes.
His tray holds matching drinks,
a cloudy bubbling of mysteries.
A decision is impossible.
He comments, apropos of nothingness.
All I know is this: what we get in life
is neither what we want
nor deserve nor merit.
It’s what we pay for.
Might I request your room number?
After our transactional analysis,
he gestures along the beach.
Observe the gentleman down there
with Zola beard and eyeglasses,
a week-old edition of Le Monde
held upside down,
and a microphone on a tripod.
He’s recording your conversation.
Alarm bells in my head
begin to ring on silent
and louder somewhere else.
Who might he be?
I have no importance, I’m just a follower,
mainly of Joana, but she’s illegal,
an extraterrestrial with
an identity card in Klingon.
She reads my thoughts.
He’s just a struggling writer looking for material.
We might give him something
to scribble about.
But first I’d like a drink,
otherworldly or not.
The one in your left hand will do.
I was looking for an accent character on my Surface keyboard. I thought I’d found it, but it turned out to be a baguette crumb.
lumens on parade (detail above)