Praising, that's it! Praise was his mission,
and he came the way ore comes, from silent
rock. His heart, a wine press that couldn't last
made us an endless supply of wine.
Even in the dust his voice won't fail him
once the godhead has him in its grip.
All things turn vineyard, all things turn grape,
in the ripening South of his feelings.
Nothing can contradict his praise,
not mold in the royal sepulchre
nor that a shadow will fall from the gods.
He's the messenger who stays,
who carries his bowls of praiseworthy fruit
across the thresholds of the dead.
-- Sonnets to Orpheus I:7, David Young, trans.
The mission of the night is praise (Praise!) and I will praise Paris, though it has been praised before, and better than I could ever praise it. My lyre makes cities reappear -- hear the echoing of my feet when I landed flat footed in a square; see the twist of my face when I ate a cigar; I will walk the length of the quays and skateboard around them again; I will eat cake; I will make words from neon; I will speak in tongues; I will praise Paris.
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