The Remedy

Thanks to a drug cocktail consisting of nighttime tylenol, sudafed, centrum, washed down by copious amounts of...
tea, I have beaten this cold into submission.

All the while I have been just having a blast with these French kids, cinemaphiles, vrai Bordelais, (true Bordeaux people), they have a joie-de-vivre like you wouldn't believe.

I'm just trying to find the rhythm of these Gaulois who live in the spot where the Gironde splits into the Garonne and the Dordgone, (Bordeaux itself means water's edge, a translation that takes a different shape in the following poem). I'm also biding my time till my aforementioned trip, and I have the assorted feelings that come with the thought of traveling to the barren tundra of Poland alone, in the dead of winter. HAHAHA!

I don't know what else to say, so I thought to include a poem that I'd written a couple weeks ago, tentatively entitled:


Bordeaux Blues

Here, the rain-slicked streets have skid marks,
Not from the tires’ cries, but from the hot between Pomeranian thighs,

O where the riverbanks are bored,
And the quai’s okay,
Where banal is banal
And offal is eaten
The ducks are forcefeedin’
And a minute is all that the snowfalls.

And wine will be drunk unless you’re someone
Whose odds seem to be St. Emilion to one.

You could say a malaise has struck the Bordelaise,
But they are only those who carry it.

Until the American comes in, with his eye contact and grin,
Riding his flaming liburdy chariot,

It’s a hybridized culture, lionized but by vultures,
I would much rather be the one to bury it.