'the mountain violets break the rocks'

arrive wearing blue
spin, catch light, flash smile rose glint
one sees you exit

palm simple

Underneath that care
and whatever else is there
we are holding hands.

Cafe creme

I’m sitting in a small Parisian corner café with my brother. He’s drinking Abbaye Affligem, the house pour, and I’m sipping a tiny decaf noisette. The coffee is pretty, and bitter.

It’s 8pm, and the place is full of middle-aged gentlemen reading papers, chatting and slipping handfuls of potato chips from bowls into their chompers, between mouthy declarations and short laughs. Tinny dance music infuses the quiet air behind the bar, a few tables away.

It’s a pleasure to sit, since we’ve been on our feet for hours, and hours every day. I allow myself to be carried away when I have hours to walk. Apparently, Kieran does too. So we walk, all over.

Because of a mutual interest in observing the ‘real Parisian way,’ Kieran and I have casually aimed our stride away from touristic spots in the city. But we’ve been happy to find that our mild efforts don’t usually work; instead, Paris guides you, by its winding thoroughfares and appealing bustle, back to its grandest spots. So actually, we’ve already climbed Montmartre, visited Le Grande Epicerie at Le Bon Marche, picnicked at the Seine’s humble haunches, and broken numerous baguettes.

Indeed, we’ve also made a few intentional touristic stops. Chins in hands, we gave critique to Rembrandt’s depictions of Christ at the Louvre. We’ve walked through several outdoor flea markets. Today, we attempted a visit to Jim Morrison’s gravesite at the cemetery at Pere Lachais, but lost interest, conversed about the end of the world and, upon exiting, found Edith Piaf’s gravesite instead. (It is white stone, endearing and well-kept.)

And we’ve done a couple of things that travelers don’t often put at the top of their lists: we saw The Hangover 2 at a French theater, and unwittingly wandered out past the last stop on Metro ligne 8, into a French mall and a French McDonald’s, to use its wifi.

But one of my favorite pastimes on this particular Parisian excursion is something I do regularly, and everywhere: pausing to reflect and write – especially at a coffee shop with a particularly good view. Each day here in Paris, we’ve found exceptional café spots, we've sat for a measurable time. Kieran pulls out a book and I either read or write, and we watch the people of Paris pass.

We find that it’s easy to blend in and observe, especially when we relax.

firstly: yes.

stop me for good reason
whisk me somewhere
that takes the b r e a t h

or
let
me
run

when strangers chuckle together on the street (re-post)

(consolidating old blogs) This was published on 'hello panda' in 2009


there's a great rumbling notion
that tumbles the ocean
like the waves - only stronger -
like what pushes those

it's inside my purpose
and it makes me nervous
- in a good way -
a way that I think I chose

it's this notion that brings me
to ponder the question
- what makes us all
so incredibly close -

why is it that in a pinch
we belong here
carried by currents
we follow by nose

and that infinite, inconspicuous
wind that still grows.

rich wool

i cried last week
twice

over small,
big pulls

that i found,
pulled
a pile
of knots

big ropes
and small strings
in bowlines
and caught rings

a tangle of
think-tattered thoughts


but the keenest happ
happened
at the pinnacle
tear,
upon letting
the line-ends
go

i became
unraveled,

and, lauging
while sobbing,

tightroped
on that feeling of
woe


each time, my eyes salted
after the tears halted

me weary
my cheeks ruddied pink

and so what remains
are the richest
of fibers –
the best to weave,
i should think.

someplace undeniably great

why do you ramble
in insignificant lines
when you can curl them?

•••

i figured you out
and you're not so so cool; it's
your ego that frames you

and makes you a tool
if you'd just kill your conscience
and live like it's hot

take in the beauty
and love, love a lot - why, then
we could get someplace.