Michael A. Internicola




     I stand naked about the middle of this room, one fourteen A.M., perhaps
by accident in sweet sweet Paris reading and reading the letter Emily's
grandmother sent me on Tuesday regarding her death. Emmy managing herself
insignificant by Auteuil Viaduct that day, overheard near Pigalle doing
finger puppets on the wall...doing dishes, incorrigible, her face in a way
that shocks, "We were just making progress."-she said, "We have baggage now.
People like you are dangerous because you never know what to expect. Don't
know what's coming or of their mouth or where they will end up but at the
same time people like you have strong minds--a good punching bag for people
like me."-The soft words by Emmy. 5 by 6. Her long lashes springing out.
Emily Frances over and over again, flat on my back suddenly until the lights
go out and there's only us disguised as something grandiose, something
blazing or swarming blank. I am lying where the blossoming skies have
opened; imagining the gentle breeze is a restless one storming over the
candles I have provided in this space. And the room is darker tonight, this
flame glaring past the package and sweat on the floor. The apartment
continuously silent--which is still empty besides that crazy roommate Doug
walking heavy outside the place. I was thinking of Emily, of those times
before her untimely passing had entered my life and I feel her. I feel her
like sharp rocks or cactus pricks all over my skin, punishing and persisting
without much warning but combined with a treated love, a token love that
mustards and coats my blue body warm. For all the good it did us in the fall
of 98' I can't really say. Which is to say: Emily's life is over. The
date--summer 2001, about thirty years after I was born. I have confused
emotions otherwise. The ashes and directions seem simple enough to
understand. At Emily's request, I should take her spirit and place it
somewhere special like the rest of her friends. It could have stopped at any

     I pause. I pause because I can picture her, as fine as she can be,
walking lead footed in secret wind and slightly weakening to stop for a
second before looking at me, positioning herself towards others and
cocktails, a laugh possibly and a chat with bartenders in French about bird
shit or the hero on the corner of the stairs. that was how we came to know
each other, in a restaurant around Paris sipping chardonnay and talking shop
about manly gestures, Euro-trash or bullfighting. I can hardly remember the
diplomatic conversation or her eyes, her generous stare, her noticing me. I
sat between Emily and an English-speaking cohort discussing a last second
trip to Jackson Hole, Wyoming before they both traveled abroad and initially
came to Spain. I knew Emily at that point to be a 25 year-old novelist with
no books to her name, strung out on grad school problems until age 23 in New
York City, decided to say fuck it...made up of mostly Irish and Dutch
decent. All girl, all coached work with ruthless dirty-blond hair needling
in fine print down past her shoulders. One of the prettiest women I ever
saw. She looked certain, pledging no-nonsense but funny about it. I was
already in love with her friendship but I can't imagine I meant anymore to
her at the time than another stupid American peeing in the bushes; smoking
and ashing on himself all the while he did it. From there this five month
friendship started. I began to examine our long nights in bed, our travels
to foreign land and all that make up in between. We talked about my books,
my comparisons to famous literary freaks--always included in the New York
Times list of God knows what.

     I reflect now, kneeling before my pencil and pad, of the many terrific
lies I have told myself about those days of invisible backyard barbecues and
bed bugs biting. that they never figured in my life or that she was just
another chick for me to meet and no good or no fit in my run about things
existing out of nothing. Indeed, I made myself believe that--made HASH
believe that, dancing out of the mess of things I made up in Key West,
F*L*A* and watching her skip town without saying a single goodbye. I spoke
to her twice after she returned to the States. Once when I thought I was
moving back to California and wanted her to come but never said anything
about it. the other time just to say hello and spark up a conversation but
that didn't work, promising to send copies of the finished chapters but I
couldn't. I believed her to hate my guts for asking permission to call after
that. It could have been the way we left things or her new job. Either way,
I hit the ground running towards France. I always do. And now the footsteps
drift away like shrills scattering, transforming and bouncing themselves
into something momentarily different along the backbone, something boundless
or flinging in my head. the vase or vile is there, a turquoise color wooden
sculpture that reminds me of a toy car. whatever Emily's fate, it was a bad
twist of fate for someone who clearly enjoyed living as much as she did. To
imagine her hands so elevated, so detailed with my girl Good Luck Luck
Charlie resting on the sheets beside my legs, beside my microscopic purpose
or the cockroaches wallpapering the wall means almost shit to me. Charlie
remains curious about it, wondering what I'm gonna do with my travel plans
already or where I'm going. If anywhere. It was all about adult puberty, an
artist liking I tell her. Give a damn passion. Give a shit kind of things.

     If I myself die tonight, if that son-of-a-bitch lunatic ex-roommate
Doug next door comes at me or tries to kill me this evening I will be ready
for him. I will destroy him even if a piece of my human side dies in battle.
I have the door stiffed shut with a coffee table in front of it in case I'm
surprise attacked. There are liquor bottles next to my mattress along side
the broken fireplace. Not good enough. I go to the closet and get the
largest kitchen knife I got. If I have to use it mid sentence I will. My
money is stashed. My books are hidden. The only thing he can harm is my
computer with my other stuff on it. Whatever went down this morning with me
kicking him out is because nobody feels safe. I had to stand up today and be
a effing man about things. I had to go to work today both here and there.
Effing cocksucker. Fucking weird cocksucker. Fucking asshole was stalking
his girlfriend until she called the cops and got a restraining order against
the fuck. Fucker started playing guitar outside her job in the middle of
Sucy Bonneuil then he just took off booking from the police. I'm crashing
that Saturday and he comes up the stairs pounding on the fucking door,
hemming and hawing all shivering and shit and he's asking me about how long
I'm gonna live here and why it took me so long to answer the door and random
stuff like he's been wearing my shirts and shaving with my razor because
it's a man's razor he says and he likes the way I carry my muscle? he wants
to rent the whole place out and start his family with this girl who won't
even speak to him. He tells me he spent time institutionalized at a nuthouse
in Portland last winter and that his father made him have sex with is deaf
brother growing up. He's shouting and roaming the corridor, screaming
unconditional love and I don't whether to beat the fuck out of him or
fucking whatever I'm gonna do. Can hardly imagine this...that his job was
working as a musician in a day care before he got canned for that shit. Two
days later, he knocks on my door. It's, like, six in the morning. Charlie's
getting ready for work and he tells her he thinks we're both motherfuckers
for gossiping about him behind his back, that she's a bitch for bringing up
the crazy house thing again that he believes he's told her in confidence. I
didn't know what I was gonna do because I didn't want to kill him and bring
the fuzz in around me. I kicked him and his fucking dog Honey out about one
hour after that. I felt bad  cuz' i liked the fucking dog but he's on his
knees begging me to let him stay and that things are just starting to happen
for him or he'll leave me alone but I can't budge. I won't have it where I
write, I say. He left all his shit in the apartment, got into an argument
with the landlord about him losing the keys for the hundredth fucking time
and walked Honey out without a lease--dumped her off at an apartment store
and nobody's seen or heard shit since he came back tonight to get his
things. I look at the knife. I don't ask why I'm living like this. I know
what's going on. i picture him shooting through the walls or killing himself
in the next room over from mine. I manage a blindsided attack with a stab to
the chest or a bottle to the head. I fear no one. I could have slept
someplace else tonight but I decided to protect the home front even if I
hate the front of my home. I wear war paint and have a twenty-inch cock. I
am dyed solid blue. I can not get the dye off. I can sleep with one eye
open, overcome obstacles only I can beat. I am more man than I have
personally met elsewhere. I fear no other human being or situation. I get
off on that. I would eat butterflies but they are scared of me. I smash
heads and growl when I talk. I will eat you if you step the least bit on my
toes. You are gone. I am here and I am waiting. If I decide to, I may come
after you and you will be killed. believe that. I am the crazy fuck, the one
people are looking at on higher effing ground. I am a rocket ship, a tough
slug, an outrageous sexy beast in the brush surviving in the Parisian
wilderness--surviving in a mean fuck nut world. I am out of my fucking coma.
this is the hippo's area and the lizard must leave. the fucking lizards are

     Incredibly enough, the grocery stores are flying by as I think of this
six days later. 65 mph on the surface of the earth. Changing and shit. Good
Luck Charlie is finally sleeping. I think she's snoring, overcome with grog
and a low gargling hissy fit sound that plays like grease sizzle. Fuck those
other things. I always try to show teeth pertaining to persons named
Darling, especially if I'm forced to be next to somebody I can't stand like
that insect over there. This goes for any mode of transportation. I don't
like to be huddled. A non-snuggler slash non-spooner Charlie says.
Sometimes, I'm just quiet. I have traveled further. Once I did a Istanbul to
London trip for two and half days of foul matter. I pawned a T.V., got a
paycheck and rolled one out European left coast style. I was dirty. I shit
myself and had gas the whole time down but it was interesting. I slept in
parking lots and sex in the woods with twist kitties. everybody disappears
on a road like this. shadows blend, static blends...people's voices multiply
and divide into one bold stir--like getting used to crickets chirping or a
strange noise in the house. I get used to that rumbling because I'm stones
and begging for goo-losh in the middle of the forest. I hear it in my skull.
Black stuff rolls by art cows, light and shit coming into France. the bumps
on the road aren't too heavy and I hardly ever sit still. There's no reason
to move. At stops I stare at people and most stare right back dead center.
Ballsy people who just don't give a fuck about shit but a bed or seeing that
place they are missing or traveling to--maybe a meal in between when
something looks good. Most folks don't come here because it's just that
lonely. A lot of kids can't pass time comfortably looking outside a window
and that's a shame. It's a travesty, not being able to run to the ocean like
that, and that's what's wrong with things right there. That's why the
uniform is ripping and tearing itself in two. The nature of the world is
going down.

     Nevertheless, the American guy behind me did undergrad at Rutgers and
now he's, like, in law school at Cornell or Cortland-something very
wonderful and ingenious like that. He has sandles on, curly hair, roughly
twenty-four...Diesel jeans parked, sitting with both his feet up going to
Edinburgh and feeling the power of what's going on over here. Good Luck
Charlie is talking to him. The Spanish girl is on teh cell phone asking for
her papa while offering me a piece of gum. I motion no. Good Luck Charlie
taps me on the leg and sks me if I'm alright. She's on, something like, page
seventy of the book I bought for her--isn't it something how she
continuously begs me to pay attention, say things to her or how she wants me
to be nearer to her and when I try to build her up, help her along--she just
ignores me anyway.The chick next to me smells like Brut cologne and her
right arm keeps hitting mine while I'm writing all this shit down. Good Luck
Charlie and I went abroad in the world but we never met anyone who could
withstand the tough questions or talked the kind of talk I was looking for.
On this outside world things turn back around--stars fall from the sky, kids
and adults travel the road for adventure, for putting other stuff off to the
side. It is the encouragement and the discovery of ideal spots to tell other
formed friends about. I found this my first time around with HASH, cooking
clear across Europe with backpacks on the bridge and special photos. The
feeling of being a writer; the element of X with plenty of meaningful
conversations too. In certain company, I do not plead the fifth. maybe I was
just younger, more giving or more hungry. I did not find these things with

     The first time I feel things change is when I button my lip in the can
and I hear the many many voices of Good Luck Charlie scratching so sad in
this, the soon to be Frenchiest of all afternoons. It is the first trip I've
taken outside the States with her in over a year--hitting the wall in
Montreal, Canada for Christ's sake. However impossible as all that sounds to
you--somehow off the tracks I am. In a wink of an eye I am, I am. I have,
like, what anyone would call a thousand years of shortsightedness, a
blindness that is firmly the way others perceive me. I am pretty much an
unlucky asshole. I write words in teh most simplest way you can describe the
sentence or the action. It's always been there for me. I am a simeple guy,
like I said. When I was twenty-four, a book collector offered me, something
like, two hundred dollars a month to write a bunch of short articles about
my eye condition--this retinitis pigmentosa that the doctors are willing to
call it. I rebelled because my mood at the moment was opposite of that,
because writing to the order of the way it is...is gelding work; because
writing like that is no sunshine daydream. Money don't mean shit to me
unless I ain't got none--it's candy boxing things. Good Luck Charlie told me
that on Monday. My condition, as it was explained to me, usually in time
destroys the retinal sensory nerves--the light receptors in some kind of 100
watt turning pattern. To the point, it means I will eventually not see.
There is a narrow ring of damage close to the fovea. The fovea being the
most sensitive part of the retina and something taht is usually spared by
this retinitis pigmentosa and blah. I don't feel anything about it. I'd
mostly describe it to you as a gradual onset of dim tunnel vision at times,
like a lot of peripheral images packed together on teh sides and sometimes,
in my case, replaced by painted darkness. Occasionally, I can't see color or
I have a hard time looking into light, like, it hurts when I stare boldly at
it and then it feels like my eyes flew somewhere else and ducked out on me
or I'm stuck inside an empty beer bottle trying to get out. Over the last
ten years the doctors said my mother had an infectious disease during her
pregnancy and this, above any other history-taking diagnosis, is what
everyone's going with now. the disability, said the specialist in boring
confidence, would be but a minor problem until age thirty to sixty. It is a
high tech race to see past the curtain. My mother dies seven hours after I
came out.

     I feel bad for Good Luck Charlie because of the stomach thing. I don't
want her to be alone if something needs to be done as far as a clinic thing
goes. I love her, I do. I don't want a baby and neither does she. So, if
she's pregnant, she'll have to have an abortion back in New York while I'm
in Paris. It's about a half hour outside some Swiss destination that we're
heading for. This is not the place for these things to go down. If you could
only see the way she loves me or looks at me doing nothing. What can I
fucking do? If I could I would let it go. I'm trying to write the stupid
navel and she's, like, tripling somethin' fierce on things. I'm not taking
calls anymore. God, fuck it. Sometimes who cares how miserable she feels. I
am bracing for it. We're not doing anything but being young and being in
love and having fights; laughing poorly about bullshit in this sleepless
world...6:47, resting quietly, is a dull orange sunset. Anyway, Ralph told
me about the publisher. they sometimes had a meal together. She supposedly
bought a manuscript of poems from him during some two year college stint and
then suggested he write children's songs for one of her old wealthy clients.
She couldn't tell him anything about the style or subject matter--just that
it needed to be for kids. Ralph started doing it as a joke  because we
needed the money for rent in New York. He entered into it as an operation to
try something new, and it seemed simple at first: he never used his real
name which was important at the time (P. Vertigo, I think it was). After a
while it wore on him like everything writing will do to a person. I remember
I used to think, God dammit, it's because he's a chick and he hasn't figured
it out yet or because he's only twenty-four years old. It's because he
hasn't read this or that or, like, is a poor and stubborn writer like me.
Regardless that's how I got ******** *** **** of the ground and sold. There
ain't any real answers out there out there because that's just the way it is
and it's not going to get any better. I can see that. I can also see Good
Luck Charlie, a runaway slave next to me from St. Louis, Missouri sitting in
some highlife conference room doing marketing and thinking she's being
creative outside writing or sculpting. How does she do it! I can't stop
worrying about her though. I want her to be tough but then she says she
thinks she's dying and she talks about stomach cancer running in the family
or how all her friends all have real jobs and suck and here's me above it
all giving my two cents on hangover things as she describes the pain
shooting around her pelvis, "It's nothing I haven't felt before but
listen..."-she's saying, "We should have used erasable pen on the Eurorail
ticket. We could have changed the dates."-I have nothing poetic to say about
it and I can't use or think of anything else to mention. I don't have any
time to wait for things. I love her and I'd be crushed, like, devastated if
anything bad bad happen to her. I want to help her in so many ways but I
can't. It's bullshit and that's just the way it goes. I have no suggestions
or arguments in me. I can't truly say my feelings because I'm hurting...I'd
never say how much I loved Emily. I'm not gonna worry about it anymore.

     There are times when I'm looking out the window at something: something
like the SLOWMOTIOoN sky (the first stage of mortification), a squad of hogs
or a refection of my face and unexpectedly, without previous notice, the
dark flesh of another train comes by and snaps me back. I don't need
anything here. I linger there, I consider and fold. I think about Good Luck
Charlie leaving Paris again. The mountains don't show anymore. I follow the
telephone lines and they get farther and farther apart. Charlie and I are
quiet for many many miles--whipping snot on the seat, supporting each
other's headaches, sitting on my hands with what little I have...my toilet
mouth, my writing manual, my two ham sandwiches packed together in sticky
wax paper. Gotta get out on my own. Got no choice. Either fucked or not
fucked. Badly beaten each day. It's just too late, too late in the day to
even care anymore. Shit heal standing here, standing up to check his
baggage. It's his thought process and he isn't even aware of it...Got no
choice. Either fucked or not fucked. I am badly beaten each day. It's just
too late, too late in the day to even care anymore. Shit heal standing here,
standing up to check his baggage. It's his thought process and he isn't even
aware of it. It is me badly beaten, in the phantom cracks and out of this
unprofitable life. It is me following the river smooth, six hundred
something feet away. Adults are talking. It is me eating vitamins. Good Luck
Charlie shrugs, shakes her head and insists, "We on the road now,
Jules."-the snow that sits on top of Switzerland looks about seven inches
tall getting there. Jungtraujoch they called it a few hours back. I cough
once. Good Luck Charlie offers me a sip of her drink, pinkie stirring a
little on the lonely side of the cup but I don't say anything, "Take those
sunglasses off will you..."-she says, "You look like a goof. Like a pervert
or something."-"I am a pervert."-I say, copying these words down, "get your
head out of your book, Julie. We're gonna see some nice scenery here
(innocent)...GOD, I love this country. It's my favorite...love
switzerland."-And the climb is a pretty one, filled with adventure stones
chanting past Wilderswil, past Laurenbrunnen and then left for dead in the
Alps. I smoke a cigarette looking at the silent cars driving by the
rail--getting smoke on my clothes. Char sits up and peeks out the glass. her
back is shaped perfect, eating pizza and drinking the soda. her legs are
crossed down by her feet...her ankles rest on the other foots flip flop.
She's a Midwestern girl and she poo poo's regularly. She's a hairy girl and
she poo poo's regularly because of her Lebanese roots. She's, like, some
daze child--Good Luck Charlie is, who don't move her chair for nobody
besides people here going to The Mosel Valley or Schleswig-Holstein or
Dusseldorf even. I bang out my philosophy, "This is usually the time I like
to pull my pants down and run around the train."-I say to the tape recorder
in between her bags, "Go for it."-she answers, ponders and smiles, "You
wrote that down?"-a funny face wavering. She brushes her hair, "Can I draw
little circles on your shirt?"-I ask, "I can see if this was funny
conversation..."-she says, "...but it's not. It's just stupid stuff coming
out of your mouth."-"Another chicken soup?"-she's grinning, "Is this like a
real book?"-"Keep talking...brilliant."

     As I glance over, I surrender. I am fairly drunk on a section of the
swimming pool over by the big helicopter thing. My eyes burn and bleed. The
light goes flat on the well-kept patches. Good Luck Charlie is writing notes
to Danny or Debbie Hawkes. Sometimes, I don't even feel like I'm here. there
are minutes passing by. There are minutes passing by, scorching or tricking
me into thinking there are other matters besides the book. there is no order
here. It doesn't make sense. Charlie hiccups. the doors open up, on the
verge of making it...the wind sails in...the countryside is magnificently
open, non-touched, attentive and spacious. It whistles strangely around the
ideas of sense and pleasure. Good Luck Charlie is broken when I say I don't
feel validated visiting this place anymore. I've done that to her so many
times. Her in her white T, blue jeans wasting away...chipped pink toenails
shooting through. Good Luck Char is shaking her head, invisibly denying
she's not crying again, "Look at the river."-she explains. More graffiti and
intricate railroad tracks, "Ohhh..."-she murmurs, "I'm gonna kill myself
when I get back to New York."-"Why?"-I ask, "What's the matter,
Doll?"-"Because I don't want to get a job but I have to cuz' I'm
poor."-"Temp for a while. Wait tables or something..."-I tell her, "Till'
you get back on your feet."-"Then what?"-"Live..."-"Live what?"-"You'll
figure it out. Like we planned...come back here or teach English
somewhere."-she maneuvers her backpack and finds room on the floor, "I don't
know when I'll be back."-she says, "Char...what's meant to be is meant to
be...you fucking will."-"When?"-she asks, "When I'm retired?"-I laugh
inside. She laughs too.

     This is my real frustration. I am covered up with heavy blankets.
Nobody speaks to me. My fingernails ware into this page. They stab next to
me, kicking me in the back seat around my neck an elbows. Whole world's
coming to an end now. Gliding like spaghetti or yarn...and slow it down.
Okay now, the proper state. Hawked the graduation watch for rent money--on
my own time now. The overpowered feelings are gone and I'm fine. Do I know
LOVE? Good Luck Charlie believes I do. She believes she is safe--her hands
make mention of this. Leaving Zurich, I'm told I really didn't get a chance
to see the city. After all I'm, like, still recovering from the sea bass
stomach virus i think we got in Cinque Terre along the Italian Rivera. She's
here with me for a reason and I DO think it's trust, something
restless...It's my friendship, that something never on equal terms. It's my
Sunshine Girl's little magnetic LOVE. Oh, beauty. The same ol' train. We
stopped talking for nearly the last two hours. Cold. Fingers cold and stiff.
Can barely write. Heavy blankets. Tonight, I really do LOVE her just the way
she is even if we talked about not seeing each other for real anymore.
Starting today, I am a happy man...a man twice blessed, temperate and
hungry. I am, today, what I always wanted to be. My petty LOVE life will
suffer but in the end, whether it be ten years from now or ten years gone, I
will be patient with others and allow them to pronunciate my name correctly.
I am a man of the world, of the people--whatever I get from now on I get on
my own, "What's my name in the book?"-Charlie asks, "Your not in the
book."-I say hunkered down, "Good. Keep me your own little secret."-"I
intend to."-Good Luck Charlie lowers her head, mischoosing her words and
wishing we could go farther with things, "Don't make me look stupid...I
think this is where Anne said we should go. Look the season is returning. I
have it all written down in my journal somewhere. Brig? Is that the name of
it?"-she asks, "I don't know. Your the one who wrote it down."-"She wrote it
down. I put the notes in my journal."-she answers. All the remedies I have
provided to problems that arise seem good...she don't want me and we've
moved on, "Can't believe it's spring already."-I shrug. Someone picks up a
Coca-Cola, "I know."-It is me dragging my weary finger down the throat of
the dragon. It is a burden on my hands some. It is sweet misery to see the
sun come up. It is past the 4th of july now, America's birthday...the right
side of the train has a better view. There is really nothing to look at now
besides shit woods or a river here or there but it is the sweetest feeling.
On the road. I wish I could give them away to somebody for even a minute. I
eat them for breakfast. I put my head on my jacket, feel the goggles and I
lean them against the side. I press forward automatically while others are
speaking French. I look at rocks crashing off the curving machine, "Did you
get a picture, Char?"-"I've taken two."-"Two, huh?"-she bites her lip, "Your
missing it, Julie."

     Good Luck Charlie is staring at me hard from one seat over. Fifty
minutes ago she had her period so that put those things to rest. Sometimes
news like that feels good. Seven hours before that, I awaited the French
border, rushing $200.00 worth of pot past the Swiss police set up at the
gate. Fucking crazy. Once on the train, I scoped the john but decided to
plant the stash in a white ibuprofen bottle right next to me by an ashtray
that folded over. the only proof they'd have that it was mine would be these
notes and they're in chicken scratch English, "Jules...will you let me read
the book?'-Charlie asks, "Yes."-I say, "Why wouldn't I?"-"Because you said
you would but then you'd have to kill me...let me finish mine at least."-my
theatrics kick in, "Yeah. Well, that's right...we'll see."-the train stops
at places like Vaux-le-Vicomte where all the kids look poor. At Barbizon the
house is yellow. I lag behind. I write a letter to HASH about nothing.
Around Fontainebleau, Good Luck Char say I will lead a very lonely and
miserable life and I believe her. Sometimes I don't. And what an amazing
feeling we shared in the Alps, getting high as kites and playing pattycake
in the grass. All in all, we got maybe twenty rolls of film done since we
left London one month ago. Good Luck Charlie is supposed to check out in a
few days, head back to the States I guess to work on another life crisis she
says. I thought it interesting, about all she's seen over here verses what
little she's seen of her own country. She talked about moving back to
Chicago or California someday and I believed her. I look at her and she's
trying real hard to be on top of things, even me, but I know she knows we
can't do dick until get my writing down. Charlie just loves me and I love
her. I watched her face when she told me she was on the mend. I asked her
when she actually had her period and she said sometime today. I think about
places like Oregon and Milwaukee while she takes pictures of billy goats and
nature. Everything is so breathtaking, the most commendable endeavor and so
spelled out for me. I see a girl on a red bike, the man next to me is
smoking and checking out small matters too. I see farms and farmers and
horses; a flimsy place called whereabouts or what have you that everyone
always talks about. I pass by chickens and rich stuff in the ditches. In
some spots it's still raining little hearts. the water falls look like small
veins, a bloodline passing through the stone. Three girls from Amherst
college are still talking. I hope nobody has died back home. I notice: a
small boat, a white neck tie in the box, a ripped surfers' shirt, the Moulin
Rouge 1959, a Euripides play. Ladies and Gentleman of the jury, I hope not
to bore you but the river runs by almost gray...a pointed stake in between
tall skinny trees that look like quails behind them. A few older Americans
get on the train and they are stuck saying words like heck and this way
that'a way. We shake our heads because it's funny. Water is chugging down
the hill. that cop looked me firm in the eyes when I walked by with the weed
hours ago. I think it's weird what you do when you get nervous. Good Luck
Charlie says she is nervous for me staying in Paris, "Why did you let me
fall in love with you all over again?"-she asks. I sigh. Yeah, yeah,
yeah...yeah. The roof of her mouth is violet, "It just happen."-I say. I
reach over and touch her breast. I put my arm around her still waiting for
customs to come and search me but she moves away disgusted. her dope body
floors me, she is tapped. wasn't sure if the Geneva train station was the
only drug check point but the closer we get to 8:30--the less chance of it.
I move my eyeballs back to the window-sash. See broke slums where they bury
everybody who ever lived there on the high hill and what shapely hill they
are--proving to me that there must be some kind of hip Higher Power out
there. I hear her gasp for air. The signs are in French, "I don't know,
Jules. We're getting pretty close..."-Good Luck Charlie says unfettered
getting up to stretch her back, "Twenty more minutes, Love...twenty more
minutes we're in Paris again."