#neworleans
That week was so hot,
every shotgun house gasped,
windows flung,
screen doors striking wooden frames,
the squawk of rusty springs.
Touching skin felt like punishment
at first,
then penance,
then prayer.
We were thin, androgynous,
switching cut-off jeans,
sharing tank tops,
slick with sweat and shaved ice.
Strays ourselves,
barefoot thieves,
pirates of the quarter.
Hibiscus syrup stained our mouths
outside the Prytania,
where The Abyss flickered
and you cried like a boy
pretending he didn’t.
Inside your walk-up,
we dipped into quiet love
like bread in stew.
The radio’s crackle carried The Ink Spots,
which I recognized but couldn’t name.
You mouthed every note like a secret
you wanted me to guess.
Faint smiling lines near your eyes
from knowing,
like you’d seen me
long before we met.
Not woman,
not man,
just two bodies
leaning toward the same heat.
I wouldn't see your fall or your winter.
When the seasons change,
I’ll be gone,
back home,
watching rain from a train window,
each drop undoing what we were.
That last night,
you placed your key by the door.
I saw it,
watched it glint,
and said nothing.
The snails were climbing.
The air was too sweet.
You slept through goodbye.
I left the key where it lay.
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 3:16 PM UTC
crossing over that fog encased bridge
the wind doing ceremonial
freedom dances with my hair
that first step out of the taxi
and onto the vividly colorful
rejoicing streets of New Orleans
the little drummer boy who played
his instrument with such passion
my feet couldn’t help but leap along
to the rhythm
the hippie man on the balcony
who shared with me his passionately
growing love for his wife... along with
his one hitter too
and his wife who was never empty handed or lacking energy to dance
with any and everybody who danced back
the twenty something times my best friend looked at me and told me i was beautiful, each drink he consumed making his voice more desperate and his eyes look deeper within me
when the girls below us lifted up their blouses and exposed beautiful ******* of all different shapes, sizes, colors, forms
and the flying beads i threw around their necks like champions, followed by my arms extending as i did a jig of excitement
the wonderful soul of a girl who bought my drinks and told me to follow my dreams
5, 4, 3, 2, 1.... and a kiss
with my best friend who might as well
be in love with me
a cheers
to friendship and freedom
to beauty and love
to life
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 2:17 PM UTC
This land still sings your silent song
I chased it West under suspension bridges
In the empty whiskey bottles along Mississippi railroad tracks
In the sound of sugar sweet air in blue humid mornings
and the cool breath of absinthe sipped by the riverside
flanked by banana leaves.
Heard it in the breeze of swamp-side Cyprus trees, over swaying docks to rod iron French Quarter balconies, above the Bourbon street children drumming hymns of the Bayou's soul.
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
I thought of you in Paris
and remembered
you in Zurich
I was reminded of
you in Moscow
and I could not forget
you in Cancun
My memories were of you when I went back
to New Orleans
and Tampa Bay
I continue thinking of you
in Dallas and LA.
-R.
(16)
-LA
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
A clothes hanger
clutches a line
of paper lanterns
lighting my next step
on streets my shoes stick to
from wheat beer
I hear the ‘Pit' coursing through cracks
& inebriating aged clay bricks
‘Pat”
of rain on rooftops
& falsely take it
for Charlie Parker's
'Hot House'
but it’s 2am near Tulane
& they’ve graduated to
tracks from Tremé;
Brass jazz & barflies;
Mad Hatters & Mademoiselles
dancing barefoot
in the French Quarters
under red fluorescent lights
under cloud-covered stars;
She gets them drunk off dance & song;
Guaranteed to make locals
late to last call;
shows them back-country gems,
the beautiful ruins known only
by bayou gals
& city folk
outside, in search of sirens
where the ceiling's missing,
dancing 'till their bodies taste like rain
They 'crash'
&
'splash'
.....breaking through worn wooden floors
& cracks in plaster walls
lead by the ‘Pit’ back to the street,
&
‘Pat’
as other strange drops join the dance,
descending from skies to rooftops;
Finding lower highs
in search of Bourbon Street
lost & looking
& near Tulane at 2am
my blue suede shoes are dying of thirst,
stuck upon each step;
lacking direction
& looking for jazz
waiting to drown
in the 'Pit'
& 'Pat'
& splash
of this daily rain dance;
Lose myself in this listening
as dreamers do
on the streets near Tulane
At 2am;
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 9:29 PM UTC
It's 10 pm and the heat just hit me
The AC is off but I couldn't be more happy
Touched my first palm tree and dipped my hand in the toilet
Grabbed a cab to the city, on the seat there was a death threat
For breakfast we had Bananas foster, po'boys and hash brown
When Amanda power walked I had to tell her to slow down
By the Mississipi river I drank a peach daquiri
The waitress wanted more tips and across the streets she chased me
Strippers gave me the finger, ****** begged for ******
We were stuck in traffic cause of the constant flash floods
In a Camaro and a Werewolf to creep with vampires and slaves
Talking about plantations by the old family graves
And you were so beautiful under that big oak tree
Even more in the rain outside that locked cemetery
On Bourbon street the homeboys were asking for hugs
And I gave away all my coins to some thugs
We ate jambalaya and fried green tomatoes
The ladies were halfnaked but no one called them hoes
In a blacksmith shop with no electricity
We drank Morgan and got wasted with some other swedes
Wherever we went we felt the smell of ****
From every balcony people were throwing beads
All the ***** sounds were drowned out by the air condition
On the floor Hoyt from True Blood was changing positions
Then Chris slept like a baby when the cockroach sang him lullabies
For some reason it made more sense than "bridge may ice"
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 8:15 AM UTC
Nola I came crawling
fingernails scratching at your broken concrete
blast-ridden ears numb to
Music at your center -
Now I lay myself down in your canals
Along your muddy parks
naked; indiscreet
I swirl in trumpet music
Eddy down echo streets
With funeral processions -
celebrations of Lives worth living
Again and again.
I would fold myself neatly
In lines like paper airplanes
to cut through your wet air
like a deft tongue parting lips
gasp and gasp again,
I want to deep dive in cerulean.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 8:35 PM UTC
It's 10 pm and the heat just hit me
The AC is off but I couldn't be more happy
Touched my first palm tree and dipped my hand in the toilet
Grabbed a cab to the city, on the seat there was a death threat
For breakfast we had Bananas foster, po'boys and hash brown
When Amanda power walked I had to tell her to slow down
By the Mississipi river I drank a peach daquiri
The waitress wanted more tips and across the streets she chased me
Strippers gave me the finger, ****** begged for ******
We were stuck in traffic cause of the constant flash floods
In a Camaro and a Werewolf to creep with vampires and slaves
Talking about plantations by the old family graves
And you were so beautiful under that big oak tree
Even more in the rain outside that locked cemetery
On Bourbon street the homeboys were asking for hugs
And I gave away all my coins to some thugs
We ate jambalaya and fried green tomatoes
The ladies were halfnaked but no one called them hoes
In a blacksmith shop with no electricity
We drank Morgan and got wasted with some other swedes
Wherever we went we felt the smell of ****
From every balcony people were throwing beads
All the ***** sounds were drowned out by the air condition
On the floor Hoyt from True Blood was changing positions
Then Chris slept like a baby when the cockroach sang him lullabies
For some reason it made more sense than "bridge may ice"
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 1:27 AM UTC
In old New Orleans
Musical lumberjacks
Legitimizing their axes;
Just piano, clarinet,
Bass and the drums.
Bringing jazz back
And then some.
The cat could play
That skinny long black horn,
Hotter clarinet than
Anybody ever born,
He kept hitting notes
So pure and high
We felt each note
In our eyes!
And, if you chance by
Remember this,
They don’t allow dancing.
But when the drummer
Makes works those skins
And makes them talk out
There is plenty of toe-tapping
And nobody ever walks out.
Then, when the guy
Plays that bass fiddle
He adds an underscore
To top bottom and middle.
It’s an underbeat of grace
That will fill the rest space
And the hearts of all
In this overcrowded place.
Vintage jazz roars out
Of an old, old piano
Played by a happy madman
With fingers afire, he knows
He’s got them hooked;
He’s making them wild
As he wails on those keys
He looks out and smiles
And he puts the Satchmo touch
On those old-timey songs
And once in a while
They ask us to sing along.
For the past forty-six years
Those ugly plastered walls
Have never hear so many
Gratefully rendered curtain calls
From an audience of clerks and swells.
On Bourbon Street’s Fritzel’s.
Through hurricanes and beers
Like stepping back a hundred years.
Fats is still playing, Bessie singing
Original jazz music is still swinging.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
It felt as though the humidity itself
carried a hint of liquor as we walked
out into the night, wanting only to escape
our lives for a little.
Deep down in Vieux Carre
twisted brass clashed with a piano
running half step from the crowded clubs
on Frenchman Street.
We filled our lungs with the city
and found her to be like certain kinds
of dangerous doses--
intoxicating.
It was our second night
and the more we drank
the more I began to see glimpses
of the specters spoken of by locals.
They linger in my peripheral,
watching me with their sunken eyes.
You could faintly hear them moan,
only in defeated tones
and their collective scowl danced
in the heavy air of summer
as though it were a part from
all that jazz.
In the stranger hours of morn
I was approached by a ghost
a few blocks off Bourbon.
He offered up nothing but his ***** palms
in hopes of some false salvation.
I wrestled a dollar from my pocket
and passed it on to him,
only to watch him fruitlessly grasp at it
before it slide through his ghostly hands
to the floor below.
He looked down at the dollar
all helpless-like and he said
"It’s been slipping through my fingers
like dat for years now
and ain't nobody help’n me."
I walked from him, realizing then
why I had needed this trip,
I needed to remember all the love in my life
because the only difference between
me and the ghosts of N'awlins
was someone cared about me,
and I cared enough about them
not to destroy myself.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC