Hot Pizza In Paris

Hot pizza coming out of the oven. Do you know my nickname? The name everybody calls me? Do you know my fears? What I shiver and quiver at? Do you know the words to speak that makes me melt slowly inside? Cheese bubbling on sauce…

Raccoons are hanging around, trying to be my friend. The moon is a kitty cat’s bowl of milk. I’m lapping at the sky’s wake.

The night is sinking fast. All men on deck to bail water.

We watch movies and eat Swedish Fish, wait for microwave pizza to cook. Paris is nice this time of year they say.  How many loves must you shift through before you find the one that leaves you speechless? How long till the pizza comes out of the oven?

If I had a piano I might learn to play this song nice and slow. Instead I’ll recite this poem methodically and biblical-like. Paris is full of lights, they say.  I want to share a baguette with you. If I could swim the Amazon I might fall in love with a piranha. The pepperoni is barely hot. I might pick it off and leave it for the raccoons. If you could slice the world into eight even pieces would you spare one for me?

I’ll hold your hair back when you get drunk!

I’m going to Buenos Aires. I’m going to ride on a plane for 16 hours. Over 16 turquoise lakes. When  we land I’ll have 16 shining teeth to my smile.  The architecture will remind me of you. I’ll tango when you’re gone. These ancient words will bring you back to me. In the library. In the pampas. In Bourges’s  secret sentences.

We’re all going to get old. Oh, I know. That’s  fine, but I don’t want to get brittle, not even a little bit. Oh shit! You called it quits because I didn’t know how to play with the kids. Oh. Oh. Oh. Don’t want to get brittle, not even a little bit.

Don’t hurt me and I promise I won’t desert you.

We were in Joshua Tree.  We were in a liquid bubble. We were perfect for each other. We were skywriting our secrets in the clouds. I wore my blue glasses. You invited me to your brother’s open mic. We ate eggs sunny-side up. Hell yeah! You wore the purple aviators. Dressed to the nines and shining like a diamond. So fine!

Did love exist before you introduced yourself to me? Only in literature, I suppose.  I’m starting at the finish line. I finish wine and blow out candles. I want to celebrate the day after your birthday. I quit when the starter’s pistol shoots. I steal birds from their nests and convince them to teach me how to fly. Mike Tyson is in my corner. Lay your egg in my lap. I am your sentimental loverbird.

Keep me in your mind, my little clementine. Put my kiss in your heart-box. I’ll hide the key.

I am your sentimental billy-goat.

It’s Sunday. Eat a eucharist for me.

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One response to “Hot Pizza In Paris

  1. buenos aires is my favorite city in the world like a tropical paris. did you go see eva peron’s resting place at the recoletta? have you seen they have about eleven different flavors of vanilla ice cream?
    like plain, slightly caramel, lightly lemon, tincture of pineapple, etc etc . i hope you have a wonderful trip aos, and this is an amazing piece of writing.

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