“The Parisians”


I had the Paris, she sees Paris
through golden lips
& body
others see the problem
vulgar foreign producers
in fashionable glasses, smoking somewhere
under a roughened bridge in crystal
rude red
watching the urban spread
of punk vacancy, pale white son
with a Nubian goddess
appalling statuette movement
I whisper “your race is
beautiful”, but my face is a dirty
glass, I’m a poor shaman
to Nubians, poor
barkeep in Poland
& discreet doors keep talking
how we’re dosing
blazing dusk
almost seeing that retirement bungalow
heroining our way out of the ghetto
multigating the universe
writing our huge next
that maybe an agent will buy
this no emotion breakfast
cold pipe death meal
makes me crave more
somewhere elses & music
I stay here because of the
rent, ridiculously low
the landlord don’t mind me howling
he even bought me a banjo
& trashed Monk records
telling me “they’re yours
but she’s gotta shut up”
& so she did,
aboard a sailed silk Mercedes
headed back to Africa
amused by the wonder
of song
I kept, like an oil lamp,

Copyright © 2014 by A.J. Kaufmann. All rights reserved.