b.z. niditch | paris reading


Eating raisins
digested slowly
against my dry mouth
from a rolled up bag
with six francs left
in my pocket
on the avenue corner
waiting for wheels
to pick me up
from a hungry body
by a warming fire
waiting for a friend
who plays drums
and drives cab
who quickly stops
by the sidewalk
as riffs from Coltrane
play me over
in this chilled taxi
from a loud radio
when the first snow
appears as tiny flakes
resembling half notes
on the windshield
floating by the vapor
in a discolored December
on this calcined night
in 1966
a poet with one red eye
in a bloodshot night
goes by trendy scenes
as the fare goes up,
and I with a brief letter
now soaked by rain
in my raw hands
from Breton
inviting me to read,
the car breaks down
and I eagerly jump
out of the cab
on cold asphalt streets
for four moonstruck miles
to hitch a ride
and drive to the reading
and it’s announced
Breton is dead.

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