The Parisians hated the watery rice,
Lack of wine, civilized amenities;
The marshes were stinking sinkholes;
The muddy fields in need of paving.
They have friends, they said,
Who would gladly replace them with statues and fountains.
‘And you, my good man,’ They said to me,
‘Are a depraved rustic, a semi literate bumpkin.’
Which is true. Then they smoked opium and entered a trance.
I dug a new drainage ditch and composed six poems.
Upon awaking they snorted cocaine
And fondled one another’s genitals.
Afterwards they left in a railway car
Painted with scenes of ancient cathedrals.
I still love Marcel Proust and Charles Baudelaire,
But can find no solace in semiotics or hyper intellection.
They left behind four thousand books, which,
In an inquisitorial mood, I tossed into the fire.
Now the cabin is warm as toast
And in the mists above the dugout my visitor’s ghosts
Are suspended in a passion of disbelief and weeping.
The next day I leapt through my left earlobe
And came out the other side processed in stainless steel.
I lay upon a bed of nitrogen
Covering myself with plutonium rods.
Of course my earrings were of human flesh but no matter.
And yet when I looked through my enhanced eyeballs
I saw the world exactly as I saw it before!
All that and still rolling in the human bubble! All this and my nose still exactly eighty-seven degrees from my left eye socket!