4 Shorts

4 Shorts

Somewhere in Paris alone

Watching rain change empty streets

To glistening black veins,

He stumbled.

From the hour and the Pernod.

No finally, he thought,

I am a poet.

Sacramento

Hitched from hell with an old farmer.

Slow truck, cold beer.

“Where yah goin’”

I paused. “Home”

“where’s that?”

I paused again and thought.

I don’t remember where I said.

I lied for some reason quickly.

The sunset that night

Changed hot valley clouds into…

Into old buildings and alleys I think.

I cried.

In Narvick

The snow pressed a white face

To the window and Hot white wine and

Cinnamon sticks stirred and let me forget.

A while anyway.

I am walking fire. I burn

Inside waiting with smoke hot.

I am never dark. The smoke of my breath

Is frankincense

And I am transparent

The Death of the Cameo

Or

I am frightened by Transition

Woman,

No more commas.

Commas are pauses

For a breathless moment

Suspended

A slight eddy of Time

And then you move on. No more commas please (I can’t take it)

I will seek and find you something new.

An exclamation point!

And for me a question mark.

And in the middle of the night we will switch

No more commas

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