A found poem, hidden among mounds of essays.
I didn't have the best of Thanksgivings. Even though I don't normally believe in such nonsense, there is something horrible about being alone, when you know your family is together, around a table of pumpkin pies. Visiting the catacombs that day was even worse than being alone. It was a realization of death and the macabre viewing that we tourists were doing, underneath the city, looking at the bones of forgotten people.
I didn't have the best of Thanksgivings. Even though I don't normally believe in such nonsense, there is something horrible about being alone, when you know your family is together, around a table of pumpkin pies. Visiting the catacombs that day was even worse than being alone. It was a realization of death and the macabre viewing that we tourists were doing, underneath the city, looking at the bones of forgotten people.
Death and hatred, on this, the day of Thanksgiving
The catacombs, lacking magic,
Embrace palpable darkness,
but oh light
is helium carrying me away to the top of cloudy Montmartre as
seen through the clock (or cloak), until I'm floating above the table, covered
in rice and turkey, goat meat and pumpkin pie bie bye
Quiche:
No shaking butter
No fresh gravy
No body
But the bones of the people who were to someone somewhen the
most important, beautiful being alive crackled by the weight of a million needless
hatreds crushing them, until even they, the generations of innocents refuse to
help the gypsy woman off the RER, even their 1/2 baguette to the beggar who
sits under the Star of Montparnasse.
Can you hear the pup weeping yet?
He joined the dead yesterday.
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