Time itself has only one pace.
Is the hurry in you misplaced?
The sunset, it takes it away
at the end of every new day.
Are you chasing or being chased?
Artwork: Joaquin Sorolla – Running Along the Beach (1908)
Tonight I discover myself through my body
electrically, as Whitman discovered his own.
Bless you, Whitman, you white-haired father.
Without you I dance alone, but with you
I have the most beautiful partner leading.
Artwork: Matisse – Dance II (1910)
I was going through some old writing from when I was backpacking around Europe, and stumbled onto this, which I wrote on the penultimate day of my trip. I’m surprised how much I still like it, especially since it was done in haste, without much reflection, and probably too much wine. I remember my time in France as one of learning about Impressionism, reading Apollinaire and Sartre, and trying new cheeses every day, among other things. Je t’aime, France.
Impression: 20th Arrondissement
Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en vont je demeure
Old flat on the 6th floor over Ménilmontant,
In the gray blanket of August, I, a flâneur,
Retired there to the opiate of coffee
And careless snowfall of cigarette ash,
A palate for the sensations.
I must feed the hungry beast of creation
that demands a sacrifice of Me.
My time of day it wants, and honeyed
blood of My veins, and rind of thought.