Today, in the Netherlands, it is only the mourning of Pim Fortuyn. Bright country flowers at the center of Damrak Square. With the palace nearby, I hear my Italian friends saying “paranoico.” Then they laugh, and we part from one another. The silver mime was here yesterday in this square.

 

                        a crazed émigré

                        at the monarch’s funeral

                        has left no flowers

 

 

            In the Blue Bird Café, my Italian friend and I inhale the sweet vapors of the marijuana through a water pipe. The light is a morning light even after waking in the afternoon. In the café, I am among yellows and blues. Soon another Italian man is with us. On the streets near Damrak, in the Red Light District, my friend stops at the glass door of a prostitute.

 

 

                        at the sunlight, wet

                        her lips with your salt fingers

                        as she costs too much

 

 

            In the evening, I am beside a canal eating cheese and bread with two friends. Noam, an Israeli and Chloe, a Parisian are discussing Vondelpark. I photograph them separately, and they look solemn when the shutter blinks. We drink Fanta, and dip the bread and cheese in olive oil.

 

                                               

                        near the Leidseplein

                        we head for Vondelpark

                        in tall youthful, heart