Who hasn’t gone through a Jim Morrison phase?  Mine happened around  late June and early July too many years ago.  I traveled to Paris, slept in a bocce ball court, and watched the ‘crusty travelers’ pound on the gates of Pere Lachaise Cemetery until I was hit in the back of the head by an empty wine bottle and tear gas was hurled to make way for a funeral.  But don’t we all have stories like that somewhere in our history?

To mark the upcoming anniversary of what I hesitate to call an adventure, here’s the poem that came out of it:

Two blind mice and a cast of thousands

were we the ones who saw?

crusty travelers abandoned on the sidewalk

taking that sucker punch straight on

or strutting their peacocked dance and offering a jaw

Three blind mice leaping turnstiles

mistaking myth for history

Three blind mice leaping turnstiles

Like liquid lightening

                  Hey, is that thunder?  Is that thunder I hear?

The famous photographer

and her famous entourage are fleeing the rain for food

One blind mouse is pissing mad next to Oscar and seeing saviours

                  Has anyone seen Patricia?  Patricia?  Is Patricia here?

One blind mouse is watching a cinematic event behind closed eyes

Orphans of Hope

                  Shh…wait…quiet.  Was that an angel?

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