My Most Personal Poem

My fourth book, Ecstasy, is out in exactly a month. You can pre-order it today (and it would mean a lot to me — it’s my best). The books will likely ship before April 1 and you’ll get it earlier.

“Paris” is the most personal poem I’ve written. It wasn’t supposed to be in the book. We were pretty late into production but my life was sort of exploding and I said to Deb Garrison, my editor, I feel like we should wait for this one because I’m writing it as it’s all happening, which is rare for me.

I wanted to write a poem about betrayal but of course it ended up becoming more than that. Though betrayal is at its core. I was thinking about punishment, which Jesus did not believe in, though he was punished as a result of being betrayed by those closest to him.

It’s an age-old question why Judas betrays Jesus, who he so revered. Lust. Envy. Self-preservation. In so many ways, the Bible puts the oldest stories in front of us. Those that play out in human character for the rest of our lives. Shakespeare does that too. If you read both (or either), I don’t think you’ll be surprised by much that happens to you. Though certainly that doesn’t prevent one from being hurt, does it?

What would you do if someone you know is in a lot of personal trouble? I think we all would like to think we know what we’d do. But human nature is complicated. And sometimes the darkest things happen in the most beautiful places from the most unexpected people. In this case, we’re in the city of Light.

And for all those who were small in spirit and came after me; I’ll pray for you. I wanted to tell this story in verse first. But you better believe I’ll tell it another way too.

God bless,

A

---

Paris


On Rue de Bretagne I stood 
and I was a blond. 
I was alone that summer 
and many people and things 
passed through my mouth. 
Who are you? My therapist 
asked every Wednesday. 
I’m not sure Jonathan. 
I need a glass of rosé. 
A chain around my neck.
To be hit even when I’ve been
good (and especially good).
Who are you? I loved him 
for saying it that way.
He wanted to know more than I did. 
I put so many vodka soaked olives 
in me at Little Red Door. 
I told Luka I loved him. 
I told strangers more
of my life than I did my own family. 
How everything was falling apart 
the way it does at the end of love. 
Which is a different grief 
than death, my friend said 
but it’s lonely and not a street 
you want to live on for long.  
Whatever. I waved her off. 
I stood on Rue de Saintonge 
and a man on Grindr offered
500 euros to fuck me. 
I was surprised. 2000, I said. 
I bought cherries from Monoprix 
and ate them on the street. 
They were bad. And I knew 
that they would be. There was 
a fruit market two blocks down 
but everything I wanted 
that summer was bad.
I wanted to feel empty. 
I wanted to be even worse than I was. 
1000, he said five minutes later.
And I said okay. I’ll take a bad deal.
Just be cruel, I told him.
And he double tapped on my reply 
to assure that he would be. 
Who are you? I’m not really 
anyone, Jonathan. I’m not 
really here. That’s who I was 
for 1000. For 2 I would have 
put on a show the way Jesus
did when they killed him. 
And Jesus was everywhere with me 
those days in July. I wore him 
around my neck. I drank holy water 
from the church on Rue du Temple. 
I couldn’t remember names 
and I couldn’t remember hours
especially after ten, after sunset
after everything I thought I wanted 
was here and not mine anymore. 
I wasn’t solar powered. 
I wasn’t electric. 
I kept reading Alex Dimitrov
over and over in tweets 
from people I’d never met. 
Trump was convicted. 
Carlos Alcaraz won the French. 
The boys at Charlot became 
the boys at Bacaro
and they knew my face 
and they knew my order. 
A bottle of Chablis.
A bottle of Côtes du Rhône. 
So many texts sent from that bathroom. 
The bar. Some place inside me 
that knew I was asking 
for something no one could give. 
I walked Rue des Archives every night 
with Lana’s “Flipside” on repeat. 
The last minute and forty seconds  
when it’s just the guitars. 
I became those guitars. 
I became no one’s friend. 
No one’s son. 
No one’s lover. 
At La Perle I fell asleep 
in a booth. Jerked off 
someone’s friend wearing Carhartts.
I found Maxime and Emile 
and two beautiful Russians. 
The war continued. 
My rage continued. 
I stacked so many 
le gramme bracelets 
on my wrists I thought 
I was made of metal. 
The screensaver on my phone 
was 16th century German armor 
breastplate with the crucifixion 
etched over the heart. 
And the heart too continued. 
What choice did it have. 
Somewhere on a terrace 
overlooking the city 
the Eiffel Tower blinked 
through the night. 
I passed out in my boots 
and chains and my armor. 
Every morning at 5 
I’d wake up and take off 
my clothes. Take a xan. 
Try to sleep again like a real person. 
What’s a real person, Jonathan?
What’s being a person at all
this far late in the night. 
I smoked only Sobranie’s. 
Returned no more texts. 
Sent every call to voicemail. 
Blew money mindlessly each afternoon. 
Not because I had it. 
But because I wanted to dig 
so far down, if I left myself there 
how could anything touch me.
You know, Judas was obsessed 
with Jesus. Their kiss. His face. 
Everything about him
and how the criminals were him.
The prostitutes. Sinners.
The poor. The wretched.
And Jesus, the first one of us maybe
to find out that anyone who wants you
will surely betray. 
Anyone who wants you (turns out)
may not love you at all.