...what I sometimes call Bent Synchronicity on the Back Hand Path. (BS on the BHP) Auspicious.

Regarding bug behavior, the day before Katrina made landfall, almost 12 hrs exactly, the Math Shopper and I were walking my dog Flora on the neutral ground (what we in New Orleans call the grassy median) between Elysian Fields, smoking a nice joint beneath the trees, kickin' logic theorems around like they'z jail-house punks when I spied a dozen fat trademark New Orleans Nightcrawler cock roaches lined up on a tree end to end, nose to tail, completely still but for their long antennae that wriggled about either side like fishing poles off a parade of longboats. These legendary beasts usually stand about 3 1/2 inches long X 2 inches wide? Though rarely seen in broad daylight, you can actually hear them walk across a street. When you do see them (and you will see them) at night, crawlin' across the banquette in the Quarters you must stop, look & listen. More often than not the roach will stop too, as if...considering you. If you somehow find the need, gonads or ova to mount one when it charges, or even manage to Pop It under both feet, every person within a block will duck from the sound of gunfire. {perhaps I embellish juuuust a bit:) But there they were, lined up and down the side of a Live Oak tree. "What the fuck?!?", we wondered. What if they notice us? Should we run now or just back away slowly, no sudden movements? Can they even see in broad sunlight? Aren't they blind, like so many in this city who find themselves somehow awake in the middle of the day? And hey! Why that particular side of the tree anyway and why nearly six feet off the ground? Duuuuherah...it turned out. In the aftermath, we realized from the various & sundry debris nailed into the tree's windward side that the roaches had aligned themselves aerodynamically on the tree's leeward side to ride out the storm's approach, exactly. Bugs know...or at least next time we see nature going so oddly with her own grain perchance we should, errra, pay more attention?.
Ya' t'ink?

Suite Marigny

I can smell jazmine

covering this morning

like a wide cotten bed sheet
of white class lace.
And I taste
her breath of coffee
and cigarettes
and Maryjane
and Bloody Mary coughing
on the banquette by the gate

of this courtyard in the Marigny.
I lay me down my soul to sleep.
But the heat won't let me.
so I lie
awake
and dream...

...of a dog park,
well, a bald green lot
with two trees
beside the coffee warehouse.
You can see the bags
loading in off the docks.
You can feel it on your skin
when they roast it up.
There the people gather
with their very best friends
and drink in the shade
and talk with the wind
while this flat bywater sunrise
finds them
laying down
their entire lives.

There was a time
when all these houses built from barge wood
gave strong men right lively hood
as they flooded in
from the river.

You may know the sounds
of unbroken belief
with a bucket of seed
and the pigeons beside you
as you slide down
the wet stones of the street
to a little cafe'
named for the goddess of flowers
where the Eight Ball lines up
with a Lucky 13
and Snake Eyes and Diamonds
and Demons in Chains
and the Angel waits
for St. Ann to begin
with her mask made of sorrow
and her laugh made of sin.

So when I die
do please carry me
down Royal Street
with a brass band
and a second line beat
by the courtyards in the Marigny
i lay me down
my soul to sleep

Clock Face Socrates

Clock Face Socrates

I've got a clock in my face
and it is laughing
at this time and space
it finds lacking
a will to arise
some shake to awaken
that drive to arive
on this road so taken.
I ain't got it today
to fake my karma death,
stand behind a waterfall,
breath beneath its weight.
I can always find a way
away from my self.
No one has to pay me
for That!

I've got plants in my place
and they like me
better when I play
or when I am writing
my comedy
of Socrates
of his alleged death
'er the possibility
that they gave him Belladona
to fiegn his martyr's wish
and stole his ass away
on a stretcher.
Then he wakes with his friends
though he thinks he's gone to heaven
or where ever the Greeks
sent their questioners.

I asked my mama
if she could find me
a pair of Black Cow Boy
Boots to take the stage
in any nieghborhood
on any crowded street
in any antique doorway
where ever the people
freely meet...
Lest they bust me playing music
in The City That Care Forgot
and fine me a hundred dollars
and say they better not
find me playing music
in the Quarters after dark
and that goes for your little dog,
Flora
and that goes for you little dog
too!

Aphasia Novella

Aphasia Novella

I hope well.
I've shifted over
to more music
since my writing seems
to go native.
Gone to ground!
So my spirit Simon Says.
I just needed a little real food!
Something fierce! Something weird...
Something fun...
Some kind word
from an old soul
from the old school
in the dark woods,
I found Iron John
by the still pool
waiting...
for the wild boy.

Drop me a line.
I seem to've dropped off line lately.
Hard Work! & No Play!
have uncoiled my sence
of taste & timing
so I write...on paper
and my right hand shakes.
I read words worth nothing
to no one but me.
Still you never know who listens
and you never know who reads
though you might catch them dancing
and you might hear them
singing.

I want to sit like an uncarved
block of wood,
waiting for Goddess to make me
useful.
May be a statue. Perchance a cup
to hold peoples' memories
or the body of chaos.
ring!
She staddles the altar!
ring!
Bathed in Howoly Water!
ring!
With her hands she pours
the blood of the vine
through my porus heart.
You may know the sound
of the broken leaves
and I may watch the way that they fall,
as we climb to the top of our sacred tree
and we wait for the stars to follow!

Red Emma

Red Emma
She like her coffee
Hot!
Strong as the revolution,
Sweet as Love.
With just a little cream?
To top it off.
To top it Off!

Put a sock in your mouth,
Never say a word.
Just stand there
And speak to a crowd
With the greatest silence
They ever heard.
Take a Quiet Scream
Into a Roar!
To top it off!
To top it Off!
...and we sing...

~chorus~
"If I can't dance I don't want to come to your revolution!"
If we can't dance, how're you gonna make me
Come?

I caught her out the other night,
Down on Castro Street,
Hanging up some button boards,
Still trying to legalize it!
She dropped a dollar in my case.
Said she liked my subtlety.
She was dancing when she walked away,
And I could hear her sing,
With just a little green
To top it off!
To top it Off!

Johnny Got His Gun

Johnny Got His Gun
inspired by Dalton Trumbo
My love, my country,
cries out to me, son
save me from reality.
No arms, no legs, no sight to see,
how I served my country,
now she's screwing me.

Still the VA hospital is a cat house affairdirty bed sheets, scurvy, cheap medical care

and the vets they lie and at the walls they stare
placing bets on the cock roaches racing there.

We've had nuclear power plants
that don't work at all...
but nothing for the vet who did
or his child, The Agent Orange Kid.
We've had money for new highways
& church-schools to bare...
but nothing for the vet who did
or his child running lonely
or his wife running scared.

So what about the soldiers
who fought and died,
drifting away with the Mekong tide.
Hell, they're dead & gone
so let's forget about them,
their wives, their children.
They were honorable men.
If all you want to do is live & let live
my love, my country well fuck you then,
because right or wrong our soildiers
they fought for us all
and the blood of America
tackes care of its own!
And the love of America
takes care of its own!

Mad Night's Mourning Spin

Mad Night's Mourning Spin
{like a mad irish poet}

Bright morning light a'finding me
underneath some stairs asleep
where that Mad Dog's done taken me
away again.
While them thoughtless whores
and their washed-up scores
of this mad night's mourning
spin by me
I can see their nickle plated price tags
and count their baby-cake grins.
And the glad thing is
that no one knows me,
hear, no one can call
my name.
But the sad thing is
this show is going
and my friends aren't here
to see the game.
Well its saxophone players & pastry bakers,
juggling fools & candy takers,
little niggers dancing a tap dance
in thier worn-out black shoes.
And the wild wings of the sidewalk preacher
with the wino from thier park bench bleecher
jeer the crown chunkin' small change
like it was made of precious gold...
like it was made of precious gold!