Me and the German in Paris, France (by Alex Gallo-Brown)

Paris I can hardly imagine

apart from books and films—

Bertolucci’s The Dreamers is especially vivid:

American innocence exchange-studented

for multi-lingual orgies, the cusp of incest,

tossed empties of not cheap red wine,

that startling pubic hair,

cobblestones aflame.

Or Henry Miller swapping stories for dinners,

cunting this and cunting that,

a non-stop drinkfest.

Why would you be here, Mr. Schmitz?

Assigner of essays, German sadist,

lecher of 13-year olds, amateur historian

and professional peacock.

What do you have to do with

art-house films or crepes,

masturbation or saliva,

scratched letters to parents…

and yet you are here

tripping over cobblestones,

plodding from one open-air café to the next,

alternating thick whiskey with thick coffee.

Suddenly we are very drunk

and your stories of stuffing

Republican ballot boxes in Florida

break me up with laughter—haha

those stupid liberals will never figure it out—

you are a German Jerry Lewis

and I am snorting…

We chew steak Tartuffe,

bubbles of red juice

popping at the seams

of our mouths…