Trustworthy Maps

They tell us we’re free,

A tempting cult, indeed.

If you don’t get everything you want,

Stop, change course, you will get it

On another if you just take charge.

A man who lost his map

(it actually never occurred to him

that he needed one, so great

was his faith in naturally

following his good instincts)

while hiking in the mountains

came to a fork in a path

and chose one leading to

death-defying precipices and bridgeless chasms,

so around he turned,

went back to the fork,

the other path he took,

which led to the same risks and horrors.

Romantic to go mapless, but liberating?

Secure to go mapful, but boring?

Disquieting to make new maps, but wise?

Someone said that the flea markets

And thrift stores are full of old maps,

For new ones must always be made,

If people are to learn from the mistakes of
Explorers,
To say nothing of becoming them.

Paris (Revised)

Paris (revised)

Paris,

Shadowed,
Tunnelled,
Tenebrious
Old bourg,
Glittering vainly
In the past;

Fortified
With ipods
And cell phones,
Fleetingly
Focused and
Unfocused
aliens,
citizens;

With
Hairdos, boots,
Silk cravats and
Colored scarves--
Some humans
Attention
ain't human
elegance;

Where shopping
Substitutes
Cheaply for
hierarchy
And homeless
Armies on
The canals;

Long journeys to Day
Short jaunts to Night where,

Well chiseled
Facades bow
One to the
Other, dykes
Repelling
Vigorous
Day as much
As flowers
Stretch sunward--

Umbrell-ed
Metropole--

Daydreaming
People down
Her sidewalks
Shuffle while
Studying
Cobblestones
Dark with age,
And searching
For Haussmann’s
oases,
Middle-class
Safety Valves,
Monopolies
On envied
resources;

Properly scarved
Republicans
Claw their way out
Of stinking
ratful caves
And labyrinths,
Escalating
Like moths.

Living as
Advertised.

Paris,

Neither Eiffel’s
Nor the martyr’s—
Baudelaire’s nightmare:
A dim damp bourg
Burning bright on
A Page.

technorati tags: poetry, poem, paris, france