Outside the birds here

sing before dawn

the roads are small

the machines practical

the human interaction

-no matter how terse

or repetitive, is always

extremely polite-

the people dress well

for the most part

and they live their lives

without much care for

abs, image, hair, or

concern for reflection

but, as Frost would say, “His house is in the village, though.”

Today there will be France

tomorrow there will be the riviera

and beyond that all the cities

of poems penned by dead heroes

yesterday at dawn I watched the sunrise

over the Atlantic and Ireland

the orange flame

burned

alive

the old world

and I had

to fight back

the sounds of disbelief

as the girl next to

me, who traveled the world

for a living, wouldn’t

have understood

one of them

or she’d certainly forgot

while she faded in and

out of sleep

while my eyes were

pinned to that straight-line

horizon

the weird and almost bored-Neptune

look of the British countryside

-martini colored hills-

I sit here and remember

to forget

the old faces

the old fears

the old loves

the old women

the old enemies

young and old

while outside

what we call the backyard

-over here, they call it a garden-

is getting brighter and louder

with a purely grey sky

and the arguments

of birds

red coffee cup

red stools

a red juicer

atop a long and beautiful

kitchen island

fronts a black fridge

and an impressive piece of abstract

art

upstairs my buddy

sleeps while I notice

his steps outside

are bright with rainfall

and I think about how

everything here, every brick

stone or even one rock

reminds me of a little old house

the green here goes green

like greens I’ve never seen

and the people move with

a certain look of family

and dignity,

well-placed

well-aimed

and beautifully adjusted

cynicism

in the purest sense of

the word

yet hellos

and goodbyes are

just as important

as the body of

language itself

and the awareness

of life around

them,

the sheer consideration for

others

the respect given

on debit: all the opposites of the States

blew through me at once

off the plane

just as all the similarities

blew through me at once

off the plane

but throwing back a whiskey

and Stella with

a Russian on one side

and a scouser on the other

both reading the paper

and taking in the airport traffic

-from the

women of Prague

to the Muslims with warm smiles

to the end of the bar where

two old couples ate

and laughed

while another

held hands

and spoke some kind of Czech,

and thinking now about the drive

to here

the street signs and workers

and even the cops

-without firearms-

all lived well together

because they understood

it was the best and most blessed

choice

not to say nothing

about the killings here,

rapes, murderers,

thieves,

scam artists,

suicides, addicts,

homeless, and all

the other balances to check

my thoughts,

but this morning

I’m focusing on

the good for once

-the new life of the

old world

all the things

I’ve wanted

to see,

not had to see

not been forced to

fucking deal with

due to wrong decisions

in foresight or hindsight

all the deaths

of regrets

may burn

just for awhile

just for moments

across France,

Italy,

across the outer ring of Sicily

and up the

Croatian Coast

but let them burn

like the words

of Sartre

like the

arguments

and

songs of birds

and

the litany

outside,

laid across the

garden

and

up and over the

European hills.

Airport bar.

Long Island, premium

because fuck it, that's why

10:40 in the morning

one stop in Dallas then across

the pond to the old world.

Head full of fire and hope

-of old things I've left here

-hanged twisted

and broken

45 years on this rock

out that window something

else waits

a new old style

on the page from a glance

a moment

a feeling

moving toward me

since the first piece of paper.

Here now, tired, wired, altered, alone.

The Amalfi Coast sitting brilliant

with the world watching back

while the coast runs up to France

waiting and winking and

naked of care

In here now

drinking away the

slow minutes,

peering

toward

Avignon.