At Wolfram|Alpha, if you ask “distance from Paris to Berlin” it tells you the two cities are 546 miles apart. It even draws you a map. What more could you need to know?
I like that monster film about the giant snake.
There’s nothing British in it. And the only thing
that’s kind of British—a James Bond-type U.S. spy—
gets eaten by the snake before the snake is killed.
I guess it’s good that books are dead now at the end
and we have movies. Or “good.” Everybody knows
everything in movies—every thing—is pretend.
On the train from Paris to Berlin
I realized what a mess I was in
And I knew I had to think things through
Or never think again
On the train from Paris to Berlin
On the train from Paris to Berlin
I studied all the wreckage and ruin
And I couldn’t tell if the gates of Hell
Were on the outside or in
On the train from Paris to Berlin
On the train from Paris to Berlin
I watched a waiter fold a paper napkin
He creased each side then spread them wide
To tuck each corner in
On the train from Paris to Berlin
On the train from Paris to Berlin
I saw myself in a thin reflection
I was fleeing from a sleeping face
But her dreaming smile took me in
On the train from Paris to Berlin
On the train from Paris to Berlin
I traveled farther than the train I was in
Now there’s no comparing here to there
Or going back to where I’ve been
On the train from Paris to Berlin
“Why did you do that?” Elektra would ask the young artist. “Why did you shoot James Bond and not me?”
The young artist wouldn’t smile. He’d say, “Maybe I’ve fallen in love with your smile.”
Elektra would shake her head. She would say, “You have never seen me smile.”
“I did,” the young artist would say. “On the train from Paris to Berlin. You fell asleep leaning against me. Your face was tilted down, but I saw your reflection in the window. You were smiling. There was nothing...nothing evil...in your smile.”
Elektra would stare at the young artist. The corners of her lips would pull tight, but stop. The corners of her lips would start to turn up into a smile, but then stop.
Then she would give in and smile.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
In The Mind Of Everyone Seeing Paris
“The Clock Had All His Attention”
This Scary, Pumpkin Time Of Year, Part Two
The Built World Before The Wrecking Crew
The Built World Redux—Art And Souvenir
I Don’t Know What Distance Means Any More
I Don’t Know What Lost Means Any More
Religion, Politics And The Great Pumpkin
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