Spring 2007

Volume 2, Issue 1



Leaving Paris

The larger the church the
More I felt that Bram Stoker should have been mounted upon the cross
Instead of Jesus

By the time I walked into Saint Sulpice
With its three story organ and its invisible player with a limited knowledge of chords
I was certain my neck was bleeding

The Belgian chapels were more my style
With their open doors and their minimal stained glass and their riverside gardens
The nuns didn’t mind if you slept in all afternoon

Either way it was the old ladies on bicycles I most remember
Ringing their bells with a smile to alert you of their presence their handlebar baskets
Filled with baguettes and fruit and lace scarves in case of the weather turning

That night in front of the last church at the edge of town
I felt like a cowboy in an old western who had awoken from an afternoon sleep
To find his hat missing and his horse run off and every woman he’d ever rode out
On waiting for him in the water



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© 2007 Americana: The Institute for the Study of American Popular Culture