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Nothing remarkable
Nothing remarkable. The woman staggered to her right,
then leaned against the locked bank door (it was Sunday)
and stared ahead as if she had seen Pierre Abelard in a
monk’s frock with a huge golden penis in his hand running
toward the Bastille.
Nothing new. He slept on one of the 104 mattresses in front
of the
Maison du Travail
and dreamed of Somali sand, which
collected on him more and more. A citation. It was Monday
at noon. It’s unknown how many years he’ll need to re-
excavate what was buried during his brief morning
emigration into sleep.
Nothing real. A river of people, each lugging their story
behind them like a loaf of moldy bread inside a suitcase.
The rattling wheels on the cobblestones in front of Gare de
l’Est. It’s from here that thoughts once departed every
Wednesday, following the trains for Vladivostok. Does the
Tunguska son, perhaps a Mongol, who lies in a jute sack
wrapped around an advertising column, hear the ground
tremble? Does he hear the belly of Paris, which rumbles, ah,
rumbles, this rabid, defiant beast?
Nothing amusing, as it begins to grow dark. A team of
horses with no coachman pulls into Champ de Mars. The
first time, Charles gets out of the carriage, the second time,