John Biscello

I have never been to Paris,

and so I must write about

my time there, how Hemingway

threw the gauntlet at my feet

and challenged me to an armwrestling

match three times, beating me each

and every time, and Hemingway

that bastard, sure he could write,

but he was a poor winner,

gloating and bragging

to everyone at the table

that he had bested me,

and after I was thoroughly emasculated,

out came the olive branch, his offer

to buy me a drink, which I graciously accepted

and then proceeded to throw in his face

(it seemed like the right thing to do).

Ah, Paris, in the spring, the Seine flowing like

a sun-ribbed artery, its banks pulsing with activity,

and my morning pitstops for a croissant and café au lait

at that bakery whose name I can’t remember

but whose smells

held a forever place in the stomach of my memories,

those nights spent dreaming among the mothballs

and gauzy webs in Balzac’s dusty garret,

or dwelling tenderly on the illusory prospects

of teatime with Proust,

and how maybe just maybe I’d challenge

that French dandy to an armwrestling match

which I was sure I would win and therefore

restore the dignity I had lost to that hairy brute

Hemingway, then fretting—but what if I lost?—

then eschewing altogether the masculine idiocy

of armwrestling bouts, and choosing to focus

on the lighted spools and florid ribbons

of text

that Proust, from his cork-lined room

doubling as tomb tripling as womb,

gave to the world at large.

Ah, Paris, you lovely hungry bitch

with claws

you’ve got me by the balls again

why didn’t I visit you sooner?

(or, in Reality’s case, at all)

one day, in the near future,

I will be invited to read

at that well-worn church

of a bookstore

Shakespeare & Co,

the gig procured by the ghost

of Sylvia Beach

godbless her soul

still pulling strings for writers

in the afterlife,

it will be a dream come true

so I will have to remember to stop

and announce to the audience

that I am in the middle of a dream

lucidly beamed into the warm cradle

of its center

and one salty French lady

with high excellent cheekbones

and a yellow silk scarf

bunched globular round her throat

will lightly dismiss—Ah, crazy American,

he makes no sense, no sense at all,

and everyone will laugh

including me

and then the dream will continue

already in progress.

Paris,

I knew you way back when,

same as

not at all,

life

as myth

and dream-lore

is a funny business that way.

My soul

you see

flew into

the window

of that clean, well-lighted café

that you left open

I think the year was 1923

and my soul

rested there

among a couple of insomniacs

one sad old man

a whiskered wino

and a young thin barista

with a bad attitude.

It was nothing short of heaven

as a happy haunt.

So, in closing,

all I can say is this—

Paris, you well-heeled mistress

with the bright rouge wig

and eternally puckered lips,

send for me

and my soul

again

when the time is right.

I’ll be waiting,

heart in mouth,

pen in hand.

With love and bask,

your pal and valentine,

J.B.