Under a warm progress of the sun, I went to Paris in search of the Lizard King, of Dionysus, of Mr. Mojo Risin', of James D. Morrison, of the man w/ the sultry stash of sex appeal. I wish I could say that me and my mojo were busking in a Parisian tunnel, but no. Well, truthfully it was dank and dim and smelled of drunks who peed against the slippery walls, when they should've been petitioning in a catacomb for a porcelain God or should've been with their drunken heads in the curves of robust brothel queens.
I almost got pick-pocketed in the Metro, some dude was pushing into me trying to get thru a turnstile and was trying to get in my coat pocket. I turned and pushed him and called him an asshole in French; I probably called him a sweet cabbage instead. And I almost got kicked out of Pere Lachaise cemetery, I was leaning on Jim Morrison's sepia-toned grave. Pardon moi. He wasn't there anyway, because I saw him in a moonlit window, running his hands thru his charismatic mane of hair, prodigiously naked, reading Baudelaire or Rimbaud. He was in a dark jubilee, lamenting baritone, riding storms, hauntingly a statue of Michelangelo's, a garden feature in a Parisian bath-tub. I left an epigram at the door for him, under a mat, next to a peace frog that said, "I'm afraid, at this time, on this vespertine eve, I have to cancel my subscription."
I'm making excuses
