things swim ( Read more... )

Retro:
My glasses, my dress... my pen.

Spect:
My glasses, my eyes... my photos.

How I NEEDED to leave, but how I should have loved it like I love it now. Kings Town, engulfed in flames, reincarnated like a phoenix as the epitome of quaint.
It is food,
air,
blood.

When I revise (re-see, re-acquaint, re-live) my time in there, I pine.

"Welcome to Staten Island!"
Says the button man who drives.
Thirty-six hours of Mr. Fram falling out of the van, sleeping on each others' shoulders, and dueling banjos manifested themselves in two GORGEOUS performances from APC.

Thank you for giving me no choice but to be enamoured of you.

Un papier,
C-biscuit

I can only concentrate on his three callused fingers. If our eyes meet, I’ll be defeated. I’ll give in. His fingers are worn from his fountain pen, mine from mine. The more they constrict, the more I relax - my muscles, not my guard. I remember a time when we read “Tulips” to each other, and he riveted me at the pillbox ( Read more... )

The orange plastic toxi-CITY ( Read more... )

"Dance with me, my old friend,
once before we go.
Let's pretend this song won't end,
and we never have to go home.

And we'll dance among the chandeliers...

And nothing matters when we're dancing.
In tattered tatters you're entracing.
Be we in Paris or in Lansing,
Nothing matters when we're dancing."

Mikey - Tu me manque.

Some recapitulation ( Read more... )

Well, well, well... back in the saddle.

Uh... I guess, were I in a 1943 western, I'd be back in the saddle. I'm neither on a horse, nor sepia toned.

I don't know how advantageous something like this is... seems a rather fortified distraction from writing French essays on the role of gastronomy in American vs. French society. Mais, on ne sait