Because I’m not exactly okay with how
my algorithm’s coming along, the one
that landed days ago on this three-hour
long looping of Satie’s Once Upon a Time
in Paris, with Edouard Cortes’ canvasses
sifting through themselves in the back-
ground, so I’m typing in the search engine
whatever combination of words I think
will wreck its savvy: Freeloading circuit mirrors.
Hardboiled exotic grill tools. Chupacabra holiness.
But it’s the song, of course, that keeps
me coming back to this page, because
either I’m making this algorithm or this
will make itself indistinguishable from me.
Either way, I guess we’re in love, now.
And now, I think I have to mention that
I’ve landed and de-planed at Charles de Gaulle,
stayed in a five-story walkup in Paris,
tried tipping, learned that, no matter
how little you matter, everyone says both
hello and goodbye if you share the same
small space to have a cigarette in.
And that I went there for love, not
to find it, but to join it again, to join
you, to buy good scotch and then dance
in that toaster of an apartment. Three hours
of the same song.