jardin de l'internet

I've made little progress. I do yoga. At work when no one's looking I pique some pickled ginger and it piques right back, my body-mind commits speech acts all day but I remain the abject object of my own affectation. I use the internet at an ancient Roman arena where now kids play kickball. But I've transcended the internet...it's not even real. These days I'm more interested in virtual internets, like the restaurant. I have recurring dreams the premise and promise of which is repetition; three chefs turn out plate after plate in the Jardin du Luxembourg as I run laps, pausing every so often to set paper napkins on bread plates.

Dear Abou's gone to New York to become an avocat, my cabinet is empty, and if no one comes to me chercher at midnight tonight my Coach might turn into a kadu. Mao pouts her red lips, promises "ça va aller, chouchou," offers me a chocolate. I smear red cabbage with avocado. The (black) kitchen staff asks me if I know Barack Obama, if I would like to visit Africa in October, shut up I'm busy setting paper napkins on bread plates.

Only two weeks left of work, praise be to Allah or ardor, it adds up. I amble along Rue Monge, Adderall-addled, I mange almonds, apples, avocados, all AB. I feel awesome sometimes, awful full-time. I'd assign my body-mind the name Brother Assonance, barring bad associations, adding bar associations (to set, to raise, to pass, to drink).