5 Nov 2009, 9:41am

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Someday, Rimbaud

Then Thursday I sat bolt upright.
The sun through the slatted verticals.
Dust in the sun’s rays.
Warmth in the room.
All that.
Emmanuelle at the vanity with her hair up and smiling.

I sat with her down at the racetrack; she was beautiful.
I sat with her and we watched the sea rising out of the sea oats;
she was beautiful there too.
Then I sat with her at the mall.

We left her friends shopping at a record store and a book store.
I have to leave now she said. Goodbye.

Emmanuelle, you go home with me now, ok.



Emmanuelle walked into the kitchen and she made soup.
And just like that—I know her.
Here is where your things are, correct?
(Here is how things are done)

She points out all the apples, the pears the cinnamon
the spatula and the big wooden soup ladle that I use
to stir all my dinners

Mostly oatmeal

(Not all these things went into the soup, of course)


I didn’t think it could be like this
What? She says

It’s. This is good.



Emmanuelle’s dressing in the window
Trying on one thing after another:

Things I bought for her, things
I don’t remember

I didn’t buy this I say

She’s just put on a jacket

She’s too tall, and pale for it
She should be wearing a pink sweater

I’m going to paint her
I’m going to paint her that way


Emmanuelle has a job in the city.
Or had. Today I’m telling her to quit.
The manager there.
They don’t appreciate all that she does for them.

Those boys.
Looking at you when you walk in.
I don’t like it.
I don’t want anyone else to be like that with you—you know?

Emmanuelle reaches for the light and I tell her
Oh don’t turn it off.


In a little hotel today
By the window



Emmanuelle says in the morning:
I really do think you should paint me now.

I agree.

So I get up. I go outside into the garden.

The garden is an old oak and it’s
Surrounded by more shrubs and available

I find a Blemish

The cotton is stuck on the tips of the limbs

I’m not a good painter
I think there should be more light
But it’s not
Not likely to be

Oh, oh garcon.

She puts my head on her lap.
She doesn’t even notice that I’m talking.


This is the way that I paint

I say

Sistine chapel lightning bolt belief
Bolshevik blood bloddy sock musk mollusk muscovite

Must, must open the gallery



he he after

J Gleason pops you pow right in the kisser
the money’s on the nightstand
Open your bed

Mama mia

Emmanuelle thinks that I am a little drunk
I am a little drunk, but it doesn’t stop me from painting her



Emmanuelle do you know me

I’ve just finished my coffee and third cigarette
Emmanuelle has been reading.
There is a tall book between her knees

Occupation of my fort
It looks serious

I really do think she should know me by now.

I ask her
Aren’t we happy?

Emmanuelle says
Will you take me out tonight?



We go to the restaurant and I have toast
Emmanuelle has fries
She puts ketchup on them and she takes a small bite

She smiles
(I do really like to watch her eat)

These fries are good she says
The waitress brings her more and I have some also

Emmanuelle sings in the dark glass.



Emmanuelle walks with her back to me
She’s sleeping, but she’s walking too
I’m afraid

She’s dreaming
She’s leaving

I’m dreaming too
I know her
She has her suitcase all ready
And she’s waving

Her legs twitching in sleep
My legs

She’s running
Far far or into or from this

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