Bio Note: I have three half-finished novels, and I'd really like to motivate myself to get back to one of them. To exercise my surgically mangled mouth, I'm supposed to read aloud for a half hour every day, so I'm reading one of my old novels to my wife while driving (she drives) to remind myself that I really can do this.
C’est pour Jeanne Moreau Anouk Aimee Jean Seberg Isabelle Adjani et Brigitte Bardot He is riding the Metro reading Bonjour Tristesse remembering sex young women with hooded eyes nipples chapped by the sun at summer villas enigmatic hitchhikers on the run from Marseilles shadowy former benefactors mostly he remembers Paris 1968 tearing off blood and sweat stained shirts in a fierce brief respite from the barricades
The Way Back
It is making severe demands on the unity of the personality to try and make me identify myself with the author of the paper on the spinal ganglia of the Petromyzon. Nevertheless I must be he.... —Sigmund Freud A letter arrives, pleading for a new poem. The sheep are restless; the market shifts uncertainly; hedge funds no longer hold back tide or drought. Do they know how hard it is to do it again? My plan had been give them the same poem, word for word, but what had happened to the part about about pumas? It had worked the first time, got the younger sister, the dreamy one, to that hotel in Brooklyn, but she’s been found guilty of accepting kickbacks. These days pumas are hunted like raccoons, first treed, and then shot. They drop like apples.
©2021 Tad Richards
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