Again I Find Myself

Again I find myself,
Dancing to the end of love,
Cohen paying for a trinket while I consider the possibilities of infinite,
As we walk the Left Bank,
My friends,
Once again gathering for some liquid wisdom,
And a redefinition of what it all means,
Passionate conversations,
Pablo already working the lady at the other end of the patio,
Naturally,
I’d expect nothing less,
F. Scott wastes no time;
“The rhythm of the weekend, with its birth, its planned gaieties, and its announced end, followed the rhythm of life and was a substitute for it.”
And it rings more true,
Than ever I have known,
Hemingway giving me a dirty look,
As he’d missed me on the weekend,
Not available for his sage talk,
His delicious interpretation of modern prose,
And what it means to me,
Instead tied in a beautiful mess,
Enthralled and elevated to a new Paris, perhaps modern Paris,
Rather than the Lost Generation that lives inside of me,
Tangled up in blue but not like Dylan,
Beyond Comfortable, comfortably beyond,
New habits forming,…

Zelda seems annoyed by F.Scott,
Offering another voice inside my head,
That somehow makes its way to this page,
My life an open book,
Like the masterpieces they all have created,
She scoffs;
“Most people hew the battlements of life from compromise, erecting their impregnable keeps from judicious submissions, fabricating their philosophical drawbridges from emotional retractions and scalding marauders in the boiling oil of sour grapes.”
And as I quizzically look at her,
To undress the mental slaughterhouse she has thrown,
There is no need,
Though I wish I had informed her that there will be no retractions,
Emotional or otherwise,
Not from me,
F.Scott annoyed enough for those collected,,
And Gertrude was quick to my response,
“It is not what France gave you but what it did not take from you that was important.”
And I laugh,
As I realize they are all right in their own way,
Defining my life in elegant prose,
That knows no time or space,
For everywhere and everyone I know,
Unlocks the mysteries of the moveable feast,
As my life has only just begun,
In earnest,
Finding again the strength,
To be me,
Even if their voices dance in my head,
Like a feverish salsa or meringue,
In earnest,
Yes,
My moveable feast.

SDM

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