barcelona love

substance cannot be measured by size.
the narrow streets of barcelona have more substance than vast boulevards and avenues
this land is españa and catalán fused, beautiful and majestic,
everywhere markets thrive in alleys and local kids play futbol under clothes hanging from little balconies
the warmth makes me forget VISA's currency conversion fees
barcelona
I love it here.
substance cannot be measured by size.
the red bricks of barcelona's triumphant arc juxtaposed against palm trees and parks make my eyes marvel,
but not at first glance
this Arc de Triomf has substance beyond grandeur
its simple red stones are manipulated to create subtle beauty – one that Napoleon would have turned his back to and rightly so, because substance cannot be measured by size.
barcelona may not be a small city, but its magnificence lies in the little details like street performers on the side steps of an ancient cathedral dating back to roman rule, playing Portuguese tunes on classical guitar,
stroking the violin, and singing…
singing in a way that permeates my mind
completely
every note contains more substance than 20 faceless jersey streets,
the singer like the city is tapping along to an invisible beat,
and I can't help but feel that barcelona was my home in a previous existence…
it may be just an infatuation,
but something simply stands out about this city
perhaps it's the fact that antonio gaudí loved barcelona so much that he spent his life making it more beautiful and more vibrant than he found it
or maybe the phantom footsteps of young pablo picasso café-hopping between exhibitions of his first art
or maybe it is something else
like, perhaps I am just another silly tourist from the United States of Architectural Banality,
and this change of scenery blinds me to barcelona's dark side.
maybe, but I doubt it.

amsterdam

this poem began in Amsterdam, land of canals and green plants
where men like animals attack psychoactive chemicals
and space flavored cakes make AM waking up easier said than done
in Amsterdam, I feel the presence of Rembrandt and Van Gogh
as I digest pizza dough that made my personal dough deposits decrease by several euros.
there are dildos everywhere I look
even little children seem to have them in illustrated books
it looks like the Dutch alphabet is:
D for Dildo
I for the second letter in Dildo
L for the third letter in Dildo
so on and so forth.
this poem began in my hand while the other held a piece of cheese, delicious
my eyes feasted from watching an armada of rental bicycles outnumber cars five to one,
under the red sun where to my right dimmed windows supply local sights of all sizes and colors
around the bend, a medieval church stands high with red fluorescent lights reflected in its windows,
I try to think but vowels are missing from my memory,
instead I see graffiti-covered walls and train tunnels that blend orange spirit with coffeeshops spinning
caramel cannibus
Amsterdam's rasta presence is felt like red light windows by fiends strolling the narrows,
liters of beer are poured and then barrels,
invisible etiquette melts multiple brick bike paths where it looks like time took a hit and allowed itself to pass slower,
like a jagged Jamaican flower re-rolled with more skins than invisible jets in the sky
i attempt to fly and escape this plain state of mind
but instead,
this poem ends where it began and I drift toward another cafe, if only to feign interest in the food menu.

paris

paris
is known as the city of romantic elements and a historic presence of royal essence,
a city blessed by saints with stained window palaces dotting the map like arabic alphabet characters,
where my stress is sacked like last morning's baguette
and the tourists we met are are fed the same diet…. of seasoned snail
paris
is faster than email and slower than homeless criminals posting bail
I can sense art around me without fail
it breathes out classical brush strokes,
ceasar would be proud,
if he walked around these narrow streets.
alive
with countless moving feet
alive
every roof with a chimney
alive
draws out warmth from within me
alive
street performers and directionaless roamers pulsate like a cardiac rhythm while
fashion creates trends like making striped sailor shirts blend into the background
alive
cafés face the street and people sit, talk, breathe, and live in
paris.