Histrionics

She had the face of a silent movie star,
all moon-eyed and sepia.
I could never tell if I was the
Hero or
the Heavy.

I put on some swell performances--
crummy ones too--
but she seemed to believe
them all.

Or maybe she just
wanted to be in pictures.
Everybody wants to be in pictures.

All I know is I needed a girl.
Nobody wants to see a picture show
without a girl in it.
That’s rule number one.

I twirled my cane and laughed.
She held my arm.
The editor was to cut
between us strolling along the deck and
the waterfall ahead of us
plunging down
into the rocks.

We pretended that when we’d
get to the brim we’d just keep floating,
beyond the edge, into the sky.

Two quotes and a poem by Rimbaud

These are absolutely true to me.

"The two hardest things about writing are starting and not stopping."
-Stuart somebody

"A writer takes earnest measures to secure his solitude and finds endless ways to squander it."
-Don Delillo


Novel

I.

No one's serious at seventeen.
--On beautiful nights when beer and lemonade
And loud, blinding cafés are the last thing you need
--You stroll beneath green lindens on the promenade.

Lindens smell fine on fine June nights!
Sometimes the air is so sweet that you close your eyes;
The wind brings sounds--the town is near--
And carries scents of vineyards and beer. . .

II.

--Over there, framed by a branch
You can see a little patch of dark blue
Stung by a sinister star that fades
With faint quiverings, so small and white. . .

June nights! Seventeen!--Drink it in.
Sap is champagne, it goes to your head. . .
The mind wanders, you feel a kiss
On your lips, quivering like a living thing. . .

III.

The wild heart Crusoes through a thousand novels
--And when a young girl walks alluringly
Through a streetlamp's pale light, beneath the ominous shadow
Of her father's starched collar. . .

Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping,
She turns on a dime, eyes wide,
Finding you too sweet to resist. . .
--And cavatinas die on your lips.

IV.

You're in love. Off the market till August.
You're in love.--Your sonnets make Her laugh.
Your friends are gone, you're bad news.
--Then, one night, your beloved, writes. . .!

That night. . .you return to the blinding cafés;
You order beer or lemonade. . .
--No one's serious at seventeen
When lindens line the promenade.

I misunderstood this poem. I thought it was about being 17 and getting drunk and trying to get laid. I guess it's about the way I should be living my life rather than the way I actually am.