FRANCOPHILIAC

Think of the French beside the Seine
kissing for photographers.
Think of Josephine Baker shaking banana hips,
think of Benjamin Franklin
looking for warships in scented cleavage.
Think of James Baldwin smoking Gauloises
under bare plane trees at evening,
think of Sherman tanks covered in lace panties
rumbling cobblestone streets.
Think of Chet Baker melting his baby face
in brass syringes of Marseilles vein candy.
Think of Hemingway and Stein
polishing mirrors with their elephantine
self regard, think of Lawrence Ferlinghetti
painting on the GI bill.
Think of Quasimodo in Hollywood
pouring boiling oil on rampaging salads.
Think of Henry Miller writing Tropic of Cancer
on the belly of a languid whore,
think of the Second World War and Hershey bars,
think of French fries and the idea of good wine,
think of living forever beside the Seine
in the shadow of Notre Dame, think of dirty postcards,
think of the joys of intellectual arrogance,
of berets and pigs on leashes sniffing out truffles,
think of the French connection without drugs
or car chases and you’re there, American passport
in hand, staring at the granite spires of Notre Dame
like Sergeant York without his gun or horse –
Lafayette, we are here.




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