Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Homeless in paris

In tenth grade I went to paris. And I didn't even realize I was there.

In eleventh, I passed through on my way to Belgium.

In twelth, I bought a ticket, and fell in love with the "city of light". I wouldn't leave, I missed my flight. I stayed a few extra months. But as my age grew and my time in paris began shrinking, and the cafes that held the poetry nights were turning off their lifes, and my visas expiration date a few days away, I left my bags, and ran. I did all the things that I never did before: I saw the eifell tower, I went to the louvre, I saw all the sights, and toured all the museums, I even hopped on a tour bus. I winded up behind a shoe repair shop and did the only thing I came to Paris to do: I painted a poem.

I gave up my life, I gave up the temporary job that the program I was enrolled in gave me, I left the house that I lived in, I ran, I took all my savings and bought a little furnished apartment. I didn't (and still don't) speak french--it's hard to get a job in paris if you can't talk to anyone--so over the months I sold my belongings, starting with the T.V., then the couch, then the bedside table, then the rug, then my clothes, my books, my records, my bed sheets, my shoes, I sold everything, I wore the exact same clothes every day for three months, I'm skinny and malnurished, and every night I lie awake thinking of what Paris used to be, and the girl who left me, I think of how foolish I am, and that question that I was never able to answer: "Why did you ignore the warnings?" and the afterthought is imminent:  "You knew that paris had (and still does have) one of the highest unemployment rates, and the same goes with homeless rates." I shoot up heroin to dull the pain, to forget about what I had, when I'm passed out, I dream of Alaska. Yesterday mourning I woke up, it was goddamn freezing, so I tore the wallpaper--to use it to start a fire in a gallon size can of tomato soup--but underneath the repetitive flower print, was the sillouette of New York, I've never been to New York, but I knew what it meant.

I can't afford a plane ticket out of here. The rent was due today, I only had 40 euros.
I got kicked out of my appartment, they didn't return my deposit--obviously.
I walked to the train station, bought myself some skag and another saringe, I walked into a resturant and stole a spoon. I borrowed a lighter and hopped a train to nantes.

There is this river outside of Nantes, it's called "the loire" my plan is to take one last hit, and drown myself in it. I was never going to leave paris, I should be in college. I should be doing something with my life. I shouldn't have let her leave. I shouldn't have drowned Mila. The ice never broke. Using her scarf, I suffocated her, and then smashed her head against the ice, it wouldn't break through, so I walked to shore and found a rock, and pounded and pounded till there was a hole big enough to fit her into.

I was never going to leave Paris. I might as well die here. I was never going to go to Alaska, I was never going to see the glaciers or fishing boats or the forests, I was never going to get her back.

I'll never leave France. Even if they fly me back to the states, my soul will remain in this country, my spirit will float down the loire, the animals and birds will drink me up, and my soul will end up as pigeon shit on every statue in Paris.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

The Novels

You aren't anything, without me.

With much envy, Death.

Church of the Broken Axe Handle


Church of the Broken Axe Handle by Derrick C. Brown, from his collection 'Scandalabra'.

I can't say enough. Every line, is so good, so perfect. I wish there really was a church like this.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Ode to Irvine Welsh

"An thas whein starit runnin', tha wee palice officas litele feets tryin tae move a bit fasta, bu their fat asses can't keep up. maist of em are prety slow. thas why none uv us ave ever been caught. me an tha boys, one store ta tha next. faces on posters en maist uv the stores en  es litle shitole uv a town"

"Wait, so, are you saying that none of you have ever been caught?"

"Well, obviously we ave, but neva if we saw em cawmin"

"Like in the incident where your brother was shot?"

"Yeah, jus like that. E'll all be shootin' up in mother superiors kitchen, an have tha door kickit in an all run fer tha winda, bu tha litle palice officas ill all be awaitin et tha battum uv tha fire escape. But if were ona train an decide ta take some litle lateys purse when we guh ta get off, an some palice officas stanin en tha station an sees us, ell we git away evry time"

"Could you, explain what happened to your brother?"

"Eah, I gess could. Bu furst, he wount my brotha. I took em unda me wing when we wa yanga."

"And, gave him heroin?"

"Yeah. he woulda foun it imself."

"Do you hold yourself responsible for his death?"

"Eh. Every dae. Now, ya wanda knao wha happent ta him er jus sit an paint fingas?"

"Sorry, please, as you were saying,"

"I took em unda me wing when we wa yanga, shawed im is real famiy."

"who was?"

"Me, sick boy, mother superior, and darcy. Mother Superior ist bout ten years older then all of us. Is parens died when he wast yunga and as uset their life savins ant insurance money ta fund awll uv our addicshins. Anywae, we wast at a train stashion an decitet ta snag ourselves sum money, Sick Boy braught is  itle gun wit im, an as it urns up tha itle prick we triet ta roub was a undacuhvae palise offica, and he tries ta arres us an so we staret ta run, and he firet uh few shawts sa Sick Boy firet a few back, bu what he dint know was that me brathae, mista hunt, wast bein eld by tha palice offica."

"So what are you doing in here?"

"I wast so fuckin pist at em all, Sick boy, Mother Superior, the palice officas, me parents, evrywon, so I wint off ant kellet em."

In the house, speaking in the tounge of sailors.

"You're, you're just, just, you're just always so fucking angry. It drives me crazy, why can't you just fuckin' lighten up? Take a god damn joke."

"Oh, oh, alright, okay, so this is uh, this is because I have no fucking sense of humor? You wanna hear joke or something?"

"Yeah I'd fucking love to hear a fuckin' joke from you."

"Is that gonna make you stop fucking everyone you meet?"

"It was--f-for Christs sake Gene, do you have to put every argument we have back to these little isolated inci--"

"Don't you dare pull that shit with me; every argument we have is becasue you've been fucking someone"

"Oh bullshit."

"Oh real fuckin' lady-like,"

"Are you really gonna talk to me about manners? Mr. Sailormouth."

"Oh, that was real fucking clever Annie. No, no, I'm truly honestly surprised at the amount of wit that you have."

"You are such an ass."

"And, you, are fucking whore. No pun intended."

"Fuck you Gene."

"Is it because I'm not successful?"


"Is it because I'm not successful? Are you just growing so sick of waiting around for me, paying the bills, like--just, I need to know."

"I don't love you."

"Why the hell do you stick around?"

"You always forgave me."