Paris Epic, Epic Paris — by Kate Grasso

Sometimes a sentence can be understood only if it is read at the right tempo. (Wittgenstein, Culture and Value, p.57)

spending most of our time seeing to be seen;
seen to be scene-ing
but are we audacious?
are we
with our naked eyes, lewd
filthy naked
are we
we are

terrasse-ing for the sake of terrasse-ing
is not terrasse-ing
at all

(they could talk, then agree with themselves.)

stuck in dainty glooms
may we be,
maybe we
may we

visually arresting,
and may we be guilty,
and susceptible to contagions
(hey-uh, if she came into the room every man's prick would hit the ceiling)
melange it up
pitter patter pitter POP
burn it burn it burn it HOT
quel ancestral phobia is this?
  spending most of our time
are we
may we
affect the effect of ____

and a very limited mot-palette we have,
have we

we, we have,
so we,
we, we,

I am:
offended by sad-jeaned whores.

 the new idealists manifesto: things are looking up
the stopwatch in the spotlight; tick tick STOP
(not even a demoted ally in this city can't
find a complement or at least a witness
at least a witness
not trilling

and I'm somewhat ambiguous)
and this thrashing this pushing paris i'm so tired now
bear witness, you
yes, you- at least bear that

can I say something true here? true
say it
there is something about the way people articulate themselves on parisian streets
that floods out reality.  that supersedes the usual walkway current:
not just people going, or coming, arriving or departing,
 but people expectant of
a significant and valuable interruption.

Legs scissor and feet point and angle themselves as if perpetually perched over one inch of sky.
Floating, flow.

 Everyone nurses a break-out plan.

  it's just
I want collaboration

I want to be a witness to composition, COMPOSITION

of it
perpetually ex post facto

and blowing out the words, smiles which bloom

into the riotous lights of Paris!; It's A Kind Of Death.

I was not born a paris-darling.

" 'Good things are being said and publishers' hopes are high,' he wrote Albert Murray in February, two months before publication, ' but I'm playing it cool with my stomach pitching a bitch and my dream life most embarrassing.' "
intro, Invisible Man

Author! Author!
I am a sponge, mid-soak.
Introduce yourself:


self-consciousness: a gait bow-legged enough to be mistaken for walking in a constant stream of apologetic curtsies



a morning, magnetic. a call-and-response.
and the whole morning was blown! wide! open!


erotica, from the stamen onwards, virtuosos of petalruption

(ylang! ylang, POP!)

be still now, we're almost done.
here is a moment of silence in between, a sort of palette cleanser for the non-food digestibles of a day



One fine February day I was paris-ing
and smoke, ing
in the office courtyard
and the air
was marshy and mild,

Suddenly! Seagulls!


Paris, a winter


how to: optimistic urbanity, or, the OPTIC POP!

sadly, my skin's got a shitty cost-per-wear complex, so trompe l'oeil everyone, trompe the l-o-e-i-l
Main Entry: creation
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: all living things
Synonyms: cosmos, life, living world, macrocosm, macrocosmos, megacosm, nature, totality, universe, world
Antonyms: death

stretched past capacity, unable to bear
at war, at war
with more than you: I
but with the sleepy female I.D and its complimentary body response,
the organic habit
surrender-burn desire
This is what I revoke when I raise rigid
Tremendous! in culpability, responsibility
and I allow lobe-divide, and negate spaces-inbetween

I am going to show you something.
very ugly, with the prudence afforded to:
an answer to sincerity theft
In violence ripped above human love domains
no romance but red red roped
everything, anything, is sour in motion

How do I begin? Probably not like that, but there it is and well, here we are, begun. I'm stuck on a loop, cyberspace comrades, I'm stuck on a strange, wailing technicolor time loop and things keep cycling back at me in new disguises, just different enough to keep my eyes in perpetual half-tic. Clever ones, but I am cleverer. The Eagles Hotel California sung by the thai man on Ko Chang, everything's slightly off color and off note and it is perfect, divine, how it was supposed to be sung all along then the couple next to me on the metro, the ups and downs of this sing song fran fucking cais. Toujours etrangere and an etrangere toujours. The steps along this route which follow one another automaton style alternately weigh me down like a bag of bricks. Clunk clunk pavement. Everything and anything equal parts simple and complex. Yes, no, right, wrong, it did, it didn't, it will, it won't. I get this, I don't. I can, I can’t.

(some consequences are quiet)

(quiet and carnivorous)

This just poses a slew of questions, doesn't it? Uproots a whole closetful of guilt about the crime of intellectual adaptation?

adaptation in general

So here we are Sunday, we're intellectually adapting. bringing back some concepts into life alive living.
amplifying quiet consequences.

parislife began.
Nominate a question to peel off the answer,
seasonless fruit
speak full of
the ripeness of
The Seine As My The River Styx.

paris est situe a 48 degres de latitude nord, et ici

sunlight so bright it burns out the world to a film noir; yes, yes sir,
this is Godard's Paris, again, and LOUDER! GODARD’S PARIS

we all have eyes for
subject to
CLUSTER phobia!

THIS was A Journey not measured in miles,
but in patience.
did i touch you? did I heal,


because the Art of Storytelling
is only

the telling and tellings in between
of the


what I pray about when I not-pray into sidewalk store-windows;

to be, just for a moment:
speaking as an act of bursting with a MIND, MINDS in the state of
with another, a-hum with grey matter back and forths,
noticing not noticing the unnatural attention to fingers on tables or
eyes on the nothings
to write with a hand floating and carefree, or tortured enough to take those sharp turns
eyes mind or brain
and we will chime-chime chime chariot frenzy,
and we will un-close and
decide existence as a pre-frontal fix
(where are you?)

That is the hum of a human train,
coucou, these
vernal migratory movements,
this is longing, this is the Artfully Waning Eye
this is the pitch of tenderness at a low hum, whir
and a machine man click whir broke and out came decay
oops, silly, rot
either the insatiable flatness of this city
either the personal decry 'fatigue!'
either or not




(Unfortunately, Paradise Was Beautiful.)

paradise we are, to paradise returning

there is a slow emerging theme;
one I console,
It is

always strange, always home

paradise we are, to paradise returning

Always Strange, Always Home



Proposed by Dandyakuza on Wednesday 19 May 2010 at 10:44 AM

&mdash Comments &mdash

I like the quote at the top.
Cadence is so often crucial to meaning. Unfortunately that's much harder to convey through the written word versus the spoken (at least in my experience).

As for the rest... well, Kate, have you managed to get your hands on some real absinthe? I guess you wouldn't be the first American to run off to Paris and write under it's effects... ;)

By Matt Grasso · 22.05.2010 · 03:15 PM

The comments to this entry are closed.