Those days were long.
There were no LCD
In hot Darrous.
USA was black and white
On shiny mahogany.
I walked a lot, first past
White houses, white walls
Then down a steep slope
To the hustle.
You couldn't, wouldn't now
At the age that I was,
Already immature,
Looking for and not finding
Adventure.

The mornings, afternoons,
The sun god as guide,
From one taste to another
Before the fear set at dusk
By its iodine light
And made demons of all,
The undercurrent
Of summer bowing to Fall.

A night like this
Brought the medium.
Round bright eyes,
White shirt,
Everything else black.
I sat on a metal divider
My feet wedged under.
The chadors fluttered in wind
To hold on to burlap bags.
He hit me hard.
I was too shocked to react.
He held my hand.
La Bête en quarente.
Le Roi mort en exil.
Entre les iles en barque.
Sangak cinq milles.
Feu du ciel en arc.

I spoke French
But I didn't understand.
In Béziers, on the bridge
I hold Dee's hand.
As in most evenings
The Sirroco stirs.
We're getting on
With the Caroline visit.
On my left, I see
At first just another man
Until I get hit and memory
Flows like the pain.
He looks exactly the same.
Except for the tattoo.
What's wrong? Dee asks.
Her frown elongates
To blot out the crowd.
La Bête vivante
En IA, la mort en gala.
Qui est tu?
Je te connais.
Pas.


Jam25