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tourism

Things To Do In Jamaica Plain – a reprieve

Please note: this is not journalism (exactly true per se), but rather a prose poem that I performed some in Boulder, Colorado in 1994-95…and then published in a magazine at Harvard University .

Things To Do In Jamaica Plain

Connie painted that mural on the wall of the fish market.  The one with the big happy multicultural family in JP.  Everyone buys her cards and T shirts and thinks they’re lucky to have such a great local artist.  She hates me.

These lesbians I forget their names want to be known as The Lesbians of JP.  They have synthesizers, televisions and cartons of cigarettes in their apartment. They inhale with their noses and mouths and talk about art like it’s a board game written in Portuguese.  They pretend to be characters from a Tarot deck and all I can do is cough from the smoke.  Therese slept with them all then moved to Cambridge.

Jane’s at the Art Mart.  She says,” I painted all the platforms red and now everyone’s coming in.  And I made new labels: the Our Lady of Lourdes Bath Salts, the San José love potions, the dog chains.  I swept the floor.  I even washed the damned windows.”

C. Shafton lives up to his name.  He’s a lawyer and everyone’s a victim except for the women who rent an apartment from him.  He once screamed

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reminds me of my dog tourism

Modern Dance: Elvis or Johnny Cash

I first became aware of modern dance companies by the publicity shots I’d see in newspapers. Women with their hands apart pointing to Casper the Ghost or other imaginary diety. Men, wearing only white gauze, cantering over another dancer in crouch pose eating a daisy. They had me.  And then when I started actually attending dance performances, it sealed the deal.

S called me up and said, “I’ve got a spare for tonight if you want to come to St Sauveur.”  

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tourism

Franco follies

The Director almost laughed when our visitors announced they were from L’Isle.  It was what I used to call the town where I spent some quality time as a youngster myself… the chicagoland version, that is.  But I was a sad imitation, whereas they?  They were four hearty, healthy, good-looking youth who spoke English better than I spoke French.

It was the first time we let out our home.  We usually just stuck guests upstairs in our ramshackle atticle.  Where everyone but these bitter, hungover French people from Lyon enjoyed their stay.

The L’islians tried to build a fire last night.  “Watch they don’t know how,” the Director paced.  “Leave them alone.  Maybe they’ll just talk outside, relaxing if they can’t make it,” I said.

“Who wants to just talk?” the Director said.