I’m not sure if this new writing spot I found is paradise, but it does remind me of “Paradise,” the sighing final section of Jean-Luc Godard’s Notre musique, especially the shot where somebody’s reading a David Goodis paperback in the shade. I haven’t seen that movie in forever, but when I think of its final section, I see emerald.

I see emerald here at my new writing spot (but then, I’m mildly colorblind; just ask my tangerine-eyed ex). I don’t want to give away my spot’s exact coordinates, since it’s been semisecluded for the few weeks I’ve been writing here, and the last thing I need is a brigade of poets storming the beachfront, but I will say that it’s roughly halfway between the Constitution Beach of my poem “On Future Rhyming Fuck You with Fuck You Four Times in a Row During ‘Rent Money’ ” and the ghost town where Charles Olson used to park his gluteus maximus and work on his Maximus Poems.

People on couch
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