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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4202 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention The Ghost of Jim Morrison Follows Us Through Paris Lauriette (Laurie Byro) We make the mistake of visiting you first, Jim— Jet-lagged, disoriented. Morning thick and acrid as the café we stumble into for a baguette. Our noses twitch from a dozen Frenchie’s cigs. You still know how to draw a crowd. Roses, stiff with formality. Daisies picked by a girl whose ears burn when she finds out what “back door” means. She tries it once just to please, innocently happy when the last petal falls at “He loves me.” If there is jealousy among spirits, I am certain Oscar is pissed. Your poetry is lacking. Style isn’t everything, Wilde would tell you, even so— his isn’t the most famous painting in Paris. And she smiles. Smaller than we’d imagined. She watches you linger behind us while we check the brochure, racing towards Winged Victory as if we ourselves, are in flight. You become bored with us. I pose next to a Degas Ballerina, wearing my fru-fru skirt and slippers. A Japanese couple stop to take my picture. French braided, I plie with a slight wobble, awkward with time. You return to your flowers, your school girl crushes—yes, we do love you, madly, still. I blow a kiss to the diminishing whiff that is you. |
