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A Marxian Romance Between Food and Labor

from Towns by Grandpa Rosevelts

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lyrics

They (antecedentless) say Paris is the city of Romance,
but my memory can romanticize nowhere like
Carnoules:
population: 3 385,
train station: 1,
farms: infinite.

Zola may have put Christine in Paris, but in Carnoules,
Winter Solstice Midnight can cast me as real-life
damsel-in-distress, lost and penniless at a train station,
well enough,
an old librarian my bibliothèque savior
keeper of the only internet in town.

Ex-pats may trip into greatness along Parisian rues,
but I enjoy my trip into the sucking mud
of a Provence rainy season
tuned to the current pulsing through
ankle high electrical fence:
arms full of hay, grain, mucking shovel for equestrian lovers.

You may enjoy long walks along the River Seine
contemplating the hues of love, requited or not.
I’ll take the Carnoules stroll along stream
for the half-hour trip (both ways) away from horses,
towards town and grocery stores
for a day’s worth of chocolate and wine,
that we always plan to make last a week.

La Tour Eiffel has fireworks on New Year’s, oui,
but my Russian log-cabin mates
have a hookup to Russian television:
complete with Putin giving speeches
surrounded by Russian ballerinas and middle-aged pop stars.
They are only slightly insulted when
I accidentally pronounce Putin as “poutain.”

You take Paris,
I’ll take a tiny sliver of horse farms
tucked neatly between Marseilles and Nice,
and while you blend like beige into
a backdrop painted for another’s ideal,
I will construct my own
in the tiny crevices of an ordinary elsewhere.

credits

from Towns, released November 20, 2015

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Grandpa Rosevelts Sandy, Oregon

Inspired by intelligent alien friends who like to study the American south-west (because tradition dictates some things), but also north-west, we like words and strings and ambient things, but not fluctuating vocal tones, because then our aliens would go have other, more monotone friends. ... more

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