a copy of rimbaud’s poésies that was given to me
on my birthday by the french lover who made me crazy
with the realization i was a woman
a long overdue book checked out in the library in berck, france
of a french translation of bukowski’s ham on rye
that the title translates literally to memories of no big deal
which quite illustrates the entire point
a well loved copy of journey to the end of the night
by that racist céline that i found on a bookshelf
in a room in west philly which i pillaged
on a night i was shaking with junk
and then carried 1200 miles and read
in my confusion of being a displaced person
the bell jar still not finished that was presented to me
with a post it note on the inside reading
once we begin to want, we fall under the jurisdiction of demons
given to me after a night in a bar in the st. pauli section of hamburg
when i must have been pontificating and said quite proudly
i have no influences, i’ve never even read plath
the stranger in its original french
the first book i read in that romantic language
when i crystallized nihilism and 20th century literature
and helped me prove to myself that
yes, i was capable of understanding lingual complexities
an anthology of artaud that was given to me
on a cold autumn night in exchange for a book of verse by sappho
with the artist that would photograph me on an important day
and there i saw that it was ok to be mad, careening through paris
after a night of drinking and pretending it is 1935
while pleading with the gendarmerie that he is merely tired
a copy of living in style by roger horchow sent to me by my mother
when i moved into a room by myself for the first time
that she had once given me when the first and i found a beautiful space
a book i equate to a room of one’s own by my woolf
at 20 it gave me inspiration and direction
at 30 it reminded me that
you should surround yourself with beauty
something i had long since forgotten while under
the influence of other people’s spaces
anais nin a novel and her diary
which made it ok for me to be a sexual being
childless, married twice at thirty, and a writer
she showed me that whatever i have done it is not too bad
that it is normal to want to fuck and to have your
own brand of madness for life, love, and freedom
the version of tsunami of love by eddie woods
signed july 1, 2013 with an inscription of how awesome i am
my mentor, my believer, my friend
who took the time to read a fan’s letter and accompanying poems
and took the chance to stroke her ego and urge her to publish
then opened worlds and circles and inducted her
into the sacred tribe of shamans kicking it around europe
and this, my holy grail, put into my hands
the day i got on a plane and left for the old world
tropic of cancer by henry miller
a small gesture by a dear one who
put up with the psychobabble of those last days in the usa
stolen from the penn bookstore and read immediately on that flight
highlighted, dog eared, underlined
the first lover to make the husband jealous
this robust, vulgar henry
who hit me in my soul and my groin
and shattered illusions and showed me the paris i would come to love
i see you my beauties in front of me
and lament your loss to those who will listen
but tomorrow you will be in a true gypsy’s hand
the ones who speak romanian who will sell you
or burn you for kindling
and my darlings isn’t that a better fate than to follow me
in my madness, my pursuit of pleasure, my chaos
never again will i throw you against the wall next to my lover’s head
or tattoo you with a black pen whenever i see the word freedom
this european affair has been as beautiful as i imagined it
and i know it continues in a different direction
a new language, a new love, a new experience
i carry you in my heart always
and this farewell is merely a pause
we’ll find each other again in pride and peril
and i will welcome you with open arms and an open mind
my secret loves
blossom under the feel of strangers’ fingers
and think of me as i am curled in his arms thinking of you
