aayoungin the twelfth year
of her peasant girl existence
Joan of Arc
saw god before her eyes
asking her to wage war
for the good of France
to rescue her people from their strife
she believed
she swayed a king
she kissed her sword
she kicked some ass
she achieved the impossible
she paid with her burning life
she became a saint at 20
her ending irrelevant as smoke rise
the point is
she had the courage
to stand
and fucking fight
(written for Manny Feuerberg)
how fitting
the etymology of the word
rations
the 18th century French
derived from the Latin
ratio
as there has never been enough
of you
or France
to go around
Perhaps…
it is a failing
of my English
blood,
but some men
have an enticing way
of looking
like a war
worth losing.
i
i saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
thoughts of kissing me
sleep on disreputable futons
show up at hotel room doors
unexpectedly
.
just about the time
one of my gods said
i was coming close to my
howl
.
but i’m nowhere in proximity
.
upping the ante is perhaps required
my addictions too mitigated by motherhood
and the yolk of practicality
.
i’m not lesbian enough
i’m not disenfranchised
i’ve never been to france
i’ve never given anyone a hand job for a grant
ted hughes has not yet abandoned me
.
and my drama queen persona has worn thin
my legends are in france begging their gods to shit truffles
their german wives to make amends
and i
i
this humble poet
i am so glad
to see it end
never fall in love
with a frenchman
who looks like
a handsome lumberjack
but always listen
to his opinions
about literature
paris is burning
haiti is dead
new orleans is under water
my marie laveau paper dolls
are casting voo doo spells
upon the living
and
i have so much to read
before the world ends
as a man
lays dying
it’s not god he asks for
it’s mama
*For Frankie DeVita from Brooklyn
i should have listened to her
when she said
you bore the saddest eyes
she had ever seen
the sort which have a way
of turning eyes looking into them
to the same shape
your journal entry reads mid-september, 1888
we sit this evening at a table enchanted
two wrought iron chairs pulled too closely together
you document our travels in your leather book as i compose poetry on pieces of blank sheet music sonnets become symphony
upon my grand staff
looking up as you tip the panama on your head playfully too far to the right you inquire as to the identity of my muse
i reveal with a wicked grin
it is the bearded auburn haired man standing in the north eastern corner of the place du forum i am calling it
the painter standing on a french street at night
painting
watching
observing transfixed
such an oddity to see an easel so late
we finish our truffles
whilst concocting theories
as to the picture being created
perhaps he was capturing the lingering majesty of the roman monument across the rue du palais or the horse drawn carriage
with it’s gauzy orange coachlights
certainly the bell tower of the church
but what was his brush to do to replicate
this particular starry night
instead of venturing as planned into the perfume oil shoppe glow next door we agree to go speak to the ethereal man
he begins to smile and slow his task as we approach
asking in second hand french
what he may do for us
we ask to see what he has painted thus far in the lantern light
certainement, as he stepped aside
gesturing us to stand where he had gazed from
it was then we saw his stunning beauteous perspective
it was a spell cast in oil paint
we first see the color of fire
the sulfur yellow of the cafe’s bricks pour shine melting from the lantern light
the reds of the oriental rugs beneath
the tables ran as lava underfoot
the coach and tower we wondered about are in the distance
but we notice he has chosen to omit the stone relic of another empire’s gods
how miraculous that he had managed to perfectly recreate the night sky without the color black his violet blue universe studded with firefly yellow stars
the paving stones of the arles street
became pink and lilac
as the people strolled along
through the oil on canvas
we tell him thank you for the honor of viewing his work
he bows his head
humbled by our admiration
we three warmly exchange names
his is vincent
before we depart, he asks for another moment
kindly look closer he asks
we oblige
we see ourselves sitting under the illuminated gables of his genius sipping coffee and writing poetry
about the colors within
his
cafe terrace at night