I love prose poetry but don't speak French. I don't speak anything really. Mispronounce the great minds. That's an order. Say Goethe like Go The. Say Ponge like Sponge with a P. Make Jacob an Amish farmer. Go ahead, they're dead. Only the academics can cut you now, and we all know about them — they eat canapes and call it art. I stand under them; out of the cold April rain always better. If you will pay my way I could become French in six months: Swap Wonder for baguette; shit for maird; Arch of Triumph for Arc de Triumphe — Voilal I am a great lover encompassing pigeons and wizened old women in one swath; you cannot resist my subtle wit, yes? Take my hand, walk by the Erie Canal; it is cold again and this month is full of war. So Goethe wasn't any more French than your canape is Braque, professor. It all makes sense when the bar lights shudder on. Now I am stuttering, stateside again, moaning the brokedown blues ...