Pinocchio in the Whale

I read some of my poems live last night. First time since this summer, when I read at a lovely Anglophone open mic in Belleville, Paris. Last night was an academic audience in Hyde Park, Chicago, much less random than a bunch of English speakers in a Parisian bar. There was much less anonymity there, my voice was highly contextualized there, because more and more of my experiences are filtered through the highly specific experience of a social sciences grad student jumping through the hoops of hell. Ok, ok, in part it is just obvious that I've been scarred by fieldwork and isolation both in school and out there. Oft repeated themes include: loneliness, isolation, frustration with men, frustration with women too, the shrinking circle of people who relate to the experience, masochistic protestant ethic work schedule, loss of a sense of time, space, body, and materiality, a complete restructuring of values, yes these symptoms are typical and real. Some symptoms are liberating, enlightening, you just want to gloat about them and have a chain-smoking, coffee and liquor drinking festival under the moon. Most symptoms make you fear for your sanity and wellbeing. The smart thing to do is to plan things to look forward to so that the work doesn't swallow you up, so that Marx and complete and total alienation through your work does not become you. Although the truth is, for a while I'm going to have to be Pinocchio in the whale, waiting to get through this storm, learn from it, and become a real girl again.

Frangulation

Sink humping

was discussed this evening

my fault: as the pub ladies inspired

a bit of sharing about my expertise.

The female orgasm is always a topic piquant et parfait.

Et maintenant en francais:
Ce soir comme d'habitude

les mecs francais avec ses penis francais ses mots francais

ses visages et jugements vachement francais...

ce soir j'ai me senti jeune et vielle aux meme temps:

parfait.

Comme un dessert, parfait. C'est ca.

Et la je te dis

que toi tu seras jamais l'homme

qui j'adore toujours l'homme qui m'ennui

comme la plupart des hommes

bah, comme d'habitude.

J'suis honnete. Ma pet.

So so now that franglais has entered

the flow what will you do ma petite

chou-chou

that's what the sleazy older guy kept

calling the teen with her teeny legs

all tan, squeaky clean.

I will tell you that men

and mecs sont partis dans le monde

de mes reves ou cauchemars

ou on va se voir,

meme si je ne veux pas.

Meme si je ne veux pas.

power trips and paninis

Hello Paris. You are a sparkling majestic damsel of a city that always lives in my heart and charms me into sighing at your never-waning,

at your never waning.

You are perfect and blue and dark dark like night when

your brasseries beam and your falafel joints wink

turkish, eurasian, african, subsumed under versace

and versailles.

Paris.

You pull me into your rich arms and taunt me,

a reckless lover, never another

as full of luxurious svelte

melt me, dear city of de-lights

open up your beggar's palms and cathedral calls

take me under the bridge,

curve me up the thighs of your boats,

swallow me into your jazzy caverns

and crevices creeping with people

little ants in the fantasy maze.

I crawl to you and propose

have me.