Tuesday, June 1, 2021





Danse Of The Exotic

Bolivian Food Massacre


And in that dream

A Spaniard playing charango-

leans over, turns on a tape

‘spill your life’s purpose’


a half-pint remains

my lies shake the roof

Caroline sashays

high on hoisting red flag-draped trays

exotic Bolivian food shades

streamers bouncing off her marble-fine high- octane silken 

New York culture thighs.


In a dark alley panic

thinking I’d left behind my Mandolin.


Her matchstick lit me back into flame

when I grew tired of counting ashes

beige corduroy pantlegs crossed in the woody smell

of the dank gallery Monmartre nights.




Flame O’


Slid up the Himalayas

Got down to the top of his breathe

Golden flame, flower shaded

Purple road snaking exhaust exhaled

Paradise, no waiting lines


Woke up from wondering

What i could become



Double bass roll

Monk-a coco


Stride vapor pianos

Nothing-left-of me winds

Clouds a purple train sky


Faraway from icy rivers

In my walking cane, ferryboat rhapsody

Bouys of silver tones bobbing yesteryear’s sea

Chirping seeds, yardbirds, kinks

When my

Bottled bootstraps unhinged


Scaled awkward mountain

Slipped all the way down there

I want to live in a Doris Day movie

Seen enough pain

To marinate a rising tide


Maria Callas sing me home Vissi d'arte

Burlesque circus streams


Fire night Borneo walkers

Velvet warm mantras spokes from silent wharfs

Dark star taverns

Caverns of winds, wired night mind highways

Silent stars where I’ll Rest my case




Last Gold Leaves


Last golden leaves of autumn

swing like a sad dance chariot

creaky sweet morning breeze

mon amant de saint jean drifts, washes

Monmartre air clean, accordion man, stranded steps of

Place Émile Goudou

steps of festive journeys, countless smoke-filled

 laughter day and night boat stroke dancers


two men beer in hand, landing punches with god

separate benches

a few hot-loaded pigeons pecking at nowhere

pizzazz chewed up by faceless bearded vultures

ashes swept in from crisscross naked freighters


A spry young woman springs from indigo blue

tosses her fresh-frais smile and a fiver in the accordion's battered tin cup

true sun sparkle

wave of hope revival, as the

clochettes of

L'eglise Saint-Pierre

ring the noonday




MICHAEL D. AMITIN Poet, musician Michael D. Amitin originally from Los Angeles, now lives in Paris, France. Recently named International Beat Poet Laureate 2020-2021, his work has been published in Poetry Pacific, California Quarterly, North of Oxford, Love Love Magazine and others, and can be seen at Riverlights.art

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