Paris was hungry the summer my father lived in the passage of desire
and me and John would walk down St.Denis
past all the circus of whores from Haiti and very other part of the
world
Paris is not black and white like in the movies
it has an appetite and full blown color
in Les Halles we watched a most perfect clown
he never smiled
we took trains and busses and celebrated often
we howled in late night clubs where Aretha Franklin was a goddess
here where Miller was blown
here where Celine was absurdly beautiful
here I could tell a small part of my life was consumed
and would stay forever