But Paris

turned out to be

a brutal night—

the stuff poets

are made of.


I walked about Paris

wandering aimlessly

w/ Henry Miller in my thoughts

& my eyes filled

w/ beautiful Parisian women.


My thoughts turned


girls in stockings & skirts

even in late November.


I keep turning my head

& looking

& seeing all these

gorgeous women

& then I go back

to my hotel room alone.


I lay in the bed

unable to sleep

tho my eyes are heavy

with fatigue

but mind and body

refusing to shut off.

Paper thin walls—

I hear all the sounds

coming from

the rooms next to me.


It sounds like—

no it couldn’t be—

talk about

a slap in the face:


The couple 

in the room next door

are doing it

& thru paper thin walls

I get to hear 

Everything and 

I do mean everything.


“Ahhhhhh, ah, oooohhhhh!”


After not

getting laid

not getting lucky

I am treated to 

the orgasm 

of another person.


“Ahh, oui, ah oui!”

the bed is squeaking.


Suffice to say

I woke up

in a really hurry

to get back to Amsterdam.


I caught the first train

& went straight to Amsterdam

without stopping in Brussels

to collect 200 Belgian francs.


It was a long,

long train ride

but not nearly 

as long as that night

I hope I never repeat.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

11-28-95, written at 30,000 feet.

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