Paris - Poem by Jessica Holter
I want to live in Paris; Smoke until my lungs bleed
and the funky stench of my unwashed body convinces me
of my dedication to my pen.
In Paris the people will ask me what I am and I will say
“American”, and I will answer “An American Writer” and I
will answer “Free”, an mean it.
I will walk and think and drink and stink until I seldom
recall rats or races or even attempt to define a finish line,
because my pen will all ways run.
I will learn to speak French Ebonically and drink wine noon
to midnight, catch an occasional play, twist the plot into
myself, write the truths that no one dares to. Until Fed Ex
and DHL beg me to accept an account for my manuscripts.
I’ll have to get my phone number changed because
Oprah, Alice and Hillary keep interrupting my flow.
And every cataract eye in the free world, every third
eye in Oshundom, every dead I in the ghetto, will
cry over the unrealized possibilities of master and
slave, postwar relations (art lost in CivilChristianRiotry)
And I will die pale and infamous.
My woman will be rich and want for not. For I will
have known what it is to have loved a woman, and
to have been blessed by her love and loyalty.
She will lay me down, aged, and content, beneath in
a tomb of willows and wild flowers and ebony and
ivory and fools gold; monuments to my thirst, my
passion, my lineage and my wisdom.
Her tears will birth flowers at my feet and I will
smell them in my sleep, because the smoke has
And her children will never know what a nigger
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