paris

All night I sat half wake and half slept, pressing buttons on my computer and looking out the window.  We crossed the ocean in the dark, I never saw it.  When the light came back there was only a sea of clouds and under that sea was another sea.  We dove through them both, a silver sea bird.  Under that muddy sea was Paris, where the sun shows not her face, even this new morning.  The streets smell open, the voices are different.  It is smaller than New York, but there is more room.  The houses are smaller, but there is still more room.

I did, I spent the whole night tossing and turning, impatient to land. I kept worrying about the customs check, if they would turn me away, all sorts of things.  When I got in, all they said was "bonjour" and then STAMP and then "merci", not even 'welcome'.  Fine with me.  Mahtilde was there to pick me up, and I have my first very fine French lesson.  Train is 'train', although you say it like 'tre'.  Eggs are 'uf', but not 'oof', that's like oops.  Butter is 'bu', but not 'boo'.  Boo is mud.  In French, you don't ever prononce the last half of anything.  I dunno why that is.  Yet.

My life was subways and air ports.  But not any more.  Now my life is too much tea and too much bread.  I am so happy about this.  There is so much good food here I want to keep on eating it up.

I have angels in every continent.  Mathilde I wrote of, Odelia I wrote of.  Kemi, I will write of.  Kemi is a friend of Ana Carolina de Lima (God Bless you 10000 Blessings, Little Ana).  Kemi has me bunked in a quaint little room of her apartment and is feeding me the cream of Paris, breads and teas like I told you.  I've just a had quiche con trois frommage, un clementine, un croissant, un bagghette, dried tomatos and jam.  And tea.  I had tea last night and woke up at 3.  I've been writing and stretching since then, dreaming mad French dreams.

In Color:
The French in white trench coats are the Federali, they want me to go to customs. They are experimenting with brain psyonics and psykicks.  The French in Purple are busty.  The French in Black are young kids, they are posting fliers around a 'poets toilet'.  A Poet's Toilet is a place where a poet goes pee when he thinks of a great poem.  He doesn't write that poem down, he just thinks of it while he's pissing and the toilet records it and posts it up with all the other poet's poems who've pissed in that particular toilet.  Christina Dibbs is there (she is another angel I met on a walk in Brooklyn) dressed up in Saera Burn's Squirrel suit, running around.  A sad french in a Blue trench is ducking his head and ashamed of some thing he won't say.  Finally, Kemi is there, dressed as a bright orange chicken, running around joyfullike.

On Angels:
I mustn't leave off my other angels: Carwil, Sophie, and the Meerkats.  Eric Kincaid kept let me stay comfortable in his flat in Washington Heights, I spent the evening with the Melendez's, his finest neighbors.  Little Miss Rose was particularly entertaining.  She can sing and dance.  She is a 1 million year old Goddess Dog.  Did you know?
And before I got on the plane, the Foxx's picked me up and fed me twice as much as I could eat of great italian food.  Bless all and Bon Matin.