"It’s six A.M. in a Paris just coming awake and she's about to climb to the room of Allen Ginsberg. She pushes open the door of the Beat Hotel, its squawk denting the morning stillness. No sign of the concierge. Too early maybe? In the ancient, dank stairwell she’s driven back by odors -- from sinks on the landings doubling as pissoirs, “Turkish traps” on little rises off the steps, last night’s cooking cut with sweet ghosts of grass – all of it finished with a grandaddy note that might be rising from cisterns beneath Paris, maybe from the goddamn Romans. Breathing through her mouth, she cranes up at a nautilus of stairs spiraling to a skylight. Hard to imagine Puccini’s honey-throated Bohemians here."
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Published by Texas Review Press