yahya al-shabih, fatimid cairo, egypt

what i should be looking at. instead i created a flickr account:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/parisianmelon/

i miss listening to alison krauss.

a freewrite i composed yesterday after a weekend of late night reflections.

hand on the small of my back wine
stained your shirt fruit salad with
chopsticks gummy obsession emerging
from pockets inevitably squishy from
constant body heat jointed hands fluid
i slept deeply subconsciously imagining
flamenco and a deep tan away from the
harsh words of boys not-yet-grown-up
i am not sick because i am not dying
taxes voting ballots visas contracts papers
the trails of bureaucracy could not touch
your mission does it come with 10 years
6 months of hungarian cigarettes
how to formulate the right thought in
each of your six languages such a virgin to
all of it in many more ways than one
one ear to caceres this argentinian whose
rhythms touched me i never understood
the lyrics never guessed their political
underpinnings assumed their romantic liens
and throaty disclaimers ultimately he
overdramatized the case misread my
interpretation maybe he's right but
the least i can do is give the smooth
blue-eyed harmonica player a shot
idle at a café consider the present a gift
i can never return reimbursement out of
the question ink drying quickly the the
page the scattered drunken drippings
of my incandescent mind though sober
my network connection slowing to a
trickle with six languages do
writing and turns of phrase become
empty and without dubious implication?
jean was right i stick to my borders
théophile bra drew mystical pictures
and scribbled almost illegibly in the
margins his second wife died young
but it barely paused his stream of creative
output she probably never asked questions
or demanded explanation he required
precision of language and intention
i was never quite that lucid my carte
orange guaranteed free public transit
but the time factor was never taken
into account maybe intimacy will
come with the dawn of spring rain
banished come april self-portraiture
a way of immortalizing a moment
a thought an expression that belies
a glimpse of my perplexed sometimes
muddled soul a soft cheap grey
hoodie quest for a clearer path for
someone to "meet me one day on the
street and get me, take me at face
value, and not be blown asunder"
even if once in a cirulean blue moon