by Karen Chamisso
Cressida, I thought of you
wasting away in Margaritaville
as the hour came on to that gray and blue
moment -click - when it is time for a girl to chill.
Do foxes not have holes? I at least have one
on Rue Quincampoix, where I’m a known quality
where I’ve come to have my fun
where I’ve drunk my quantity.
In the glint of the lounge light there
I set up with a gin and tonic
a notebook opened on the sputtering flair
of a word – the chatter here is trans-Atlantic
the gals are Cally, the guy is German
and the French sociopetally clustered in the corner
eye contact is made by a man determined
to ask me what I’m writing – if he could have the honor
-well he can’t – I’m sorry – as you know
Cress, I too dive into the wreck
- and so many wrecks from long ago
- and so many from last week
- playing phrase and fable solitaire
to find and wind my
lash fine thread
through dead men’s eyes and dead men’s stares
the old old slag, the old old dread
- in particular, tonight: tart. A sweet, a pie
all the endless jar between honey and vinegar
I go to the OED, cause it don’t lie
I go to the Online, for the war
“Everyone wants a piece of the attention pie”
first came the sweet then came the bitter.
Adored the adored, but where incense upward flies
better be careful of the hitter
beneath the embrace. Cherchez la femme fatale
because she materializes suddenly, Cress, you with the
bored
drawl, cig in hand,
like Lauren Bacall
that tall drink look - “will you walk in my lord”
and in a rush I see a visionary Gita
from Barbara Stanwyck to Gloria Graham
from Cressida to Nana, from Lana to Rita
from Hollywood Blv. to Iliam
Aaa…nd – and here the poem was interrupted. Just as I was
about to put my migraine geometry to work, dot by dot, mapping out a state of
exception that has lasted lo these patriarchal millenia, just as the postman
always rings twice was going to disturb Cressida and Diomedes in their tent in
my scratchin referorama, my friend Marc and his boyfriend (Luc?) come barreling in the door, bringin in a
night that will end I can already see at Cox,
heatseek my table and Marc lifts me up just as “Bonny and Clyde” comes
on the P.A. and we dance a two step, and then start singing and the Frenchies
join in in freaking out the American girls who haven’t yet experienced the
French joy in singing along that sometimes just breaks out, a distant echo of Ça
ira secularized, lyed and dyed and finding its objects in the popular song – of
long ago.
Marc says, what is the poem about tonight?
“Vous avez lu l'histoire de Jesse James
Comment il vécut, comment il est mort”
Comment il vécut, comment il est mort”
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