If you read my poetry my love
For they are conquering bereavement
To bring you back, my words are arranging a court of river
To sail you on the court my pens are breaking down and turning into a boat….
For you my love, I have learned dangers have no shadow
If a tragedy closes a door, it also opens a new door
For a memory is lost by another memory
Though you will live in my poetry century after century……

They say it's wise
to never fall in love with
a poet.
They say a poet is
troubled and hurt
that they are constantly
tortured.
They say a poet is in love
with everybody at once,
that if you fall,
you're nothing special.
They say a poet despises
the human condition.
They say a poet doesn't have
money and never will.
They say a lot of things about
poets.
But I'm sure they've never heard
what a poet has to say about them.
Because if they did,
they would find it impossible
not to love a poet.

It's like kissing the undead, his lips don't feel the same, his stare is cold and blank, and all sensations are telling you to run, but you never had the chance. You are his forever, or at least forever now, cause if you really wanted to, you could turn around, leave this place without a sound, but you don't want that, and I swear you never did, because of how you love the pain, oh how it's torturous. But I am not a lover only but the loved, learning how to kiss with these lips of withered skin.

365Nectar #8    Crescent City Blues                      
Tues. Oct 1,2013 10:21 P.M.

In the deepest attic
the thumping blues
paint pastel portraits
of the Crescent City

In burning ripples
words slap strangers
taking refuge in Armstrong Park

Slender, ****, and Shorty
growl muted tones that ravage old bones
whip thru Mid-City
and saunter thru the Garden District
all just practice to sizzle in a wild tap dance in the Quarter

High steppin Indians
march toward God
and defy gravity.

Roaring second line
being led by woman powered Pinettes Brass Band
hold rush hour traffic hostage for days
belting greasy mingling tunes
in the eye of the dusty moon

A pitch black struggle
with the old moon
liberated old souls
entangled in soaked strings
and sobbing fingers

A quintet churns and
challenges the loneliness of pain

Strumming fingers
make out with
humming strings
under a starry blue grey sky

Stomping down long black Oak-lined roads
blowing thru shotgun homes
like winter cold howling
lifting heavy weights
from shoulders
like the sun shifting against bad weather
the blues lady
open the veins
of drunken roses

Lungs full of tears
Irma holla's, cries, and moans remedies
north south east and west of a street called Desire
Oh Etta
At Last

Dim Misty light
cast a heavy shadow
on wiggling spirits
as they cast off pain
Allen Toussaint
in smokeless blaze
tips the night air

Kermit blows
Dusty blues
seducing suffering souls
bounding them to each other in bliss

Whispering around town
in a perfect velvet midnight
sweet exhalations of song birds from corner joints
dance the Ruffin groove

fiery trebles wave at people passing by

Down right ***** blues
muzzles twilight
trombones,tubas, and trumpets
lay harmony
under the harmonious thunder
of the Marsalis Masters
and low down deep
in a musty sleepless corner
is the missing Bass-man..

hung over.

Copyright ©2013  Crescent City Blues

My
   mind
      feels
           like a fire
             that was started
                             by   chain-smoked    thoughts.