Friday, November 7, 2014


Can't use the cinnamon enough, fast enough.  No matter how I sprinkle and pour and dash and dump.  It's there at the same level.  I wish I had a better disguise but what could be more perfect than just what I am?  In the guise of a teacher--I've become that shamed bureaucrat, that homely list-maker of rules and policies, nodding.  I defy those things from my window in Paris, putting on a black or grey sweater and some flats to go down into the streets to get a latte; cigarettes beginning to smell good to me again, each color and shape I encounter--a whole novel.  I bit into culture's crusty bread as if for the first time.  As if for the last.  No mind that looking back I would be considered a comic book character, no mind that looking forward there's such a watery life ahead.

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