#nola
The sky burns into night on a broken gold horizon
Cela va sans dire mais, I will say it anyway
Take my hand, I would follow anywhere
Up the rocks and down the stairs
Leaves falling down like confetti at a parade
Tiny little Bourbon Street in the home we made
The sky burns into night on a broken gold horizon
Cela va sans dire mais, I will say it anyway
Ever since tomorrow became today
I was singing about you before I saw your face
I'll paint a map on the tops of my shoes
So I will never lose my way to you
The sky burns into night on a broken gold horizon
Cela va sans dire mais, I will say it anyway
Even if it ended and this was all
I would never regret the fall
The sky burns into night on a broken gold horizon
Cela va sans dire mais, I will say it anyway
I love you
Jul 17, 2022
Jul 17, 2022 at 5:09 AM UTC
We decide where to go right before we leave
In our hurry we forget the keys
Want to hang out but we only have an hour
Do you want to buy me a whiskey sour?
Keep me in your pocket until you need a ride
I just keep on falling into your landslide
There's a place I go in the back of my mind
Where I feel your love and I know you're mine
Believe you me, I know it's a fantasy
Give me a second, I'll come back to reality
Keep me in your pocket until you need a right
I just keep on falling into your landslide
These hands haven't been held in way too long
These lips forgot how to sing your song
Knock down the cobwebs, shake off all the dust
My throat's too dry to talk about us
Baby, Bourbon, St. Peters, to Tchoup
There's nowhere in the world I'd rather stop
I'm not as dumb as I used to be
I know you're using me
But don't stop using me
Jul 17, 2022
Jul 17, 2022 at 4:30 AM UTC
A girl I dated once called me an "emotionless robot." Yesterday I woke up screaming, last night I fell asleep while crying... Guess she was wrong.
Fingers freezing.
Paint on a smile for passer-bys.
Keep my feet moving down the street
to PJ's for coffee,
for my daily "Good Morning."
Someone told me a song I played was "sad,"
I told them it was the happiest one I had.
The little market store on St. Louis is letting me stock the cooler again this afternoon.
So, I'll be able to buy another drink tonight.
The mornings are stiff,
and the late night shivers with cold.
1987 is the code to find the restroom.
Coffee warms my disposition.
Words stay trapped in my pen,
I start writing sometimes,
and don't know how to end.
... (i'm sorry)
Feb 13, 2022
Feb 13, 2022 at 10:27 AM 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
Grimacing,
I woke to an overbearing brightness;
Not enough sleep again.
I thought about you and wished the light would retreat.
Wistful reminders of waking too early under your arm,
my head pulsating from lack of sleep--
I lay down and question my self worth.
Habitual.
I silently walk through a house that is not my own,
thick oak floors giving away my attempted discretion.
I move to a deck soaked in sunlight
tucking myself into a corner with a smoke.
My only crutch left.
I relive my last day with you.
"Where've you been?" 'Busy.'
"What are your plans?" Silence.
The corner of any room is where to find me.
Preferential.
Isolated and alone, until someone sees you.
One foot in, one foot out.
One hand reaching, one hand releasing.
My shortcomings help and hinder.
Everyone smiles at you in New Orleans.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 4:25 PM UTC
rain and wind swirl outside in the dark gray above
no one wants to be out in the mess now
we all just stand and stare on our porches
wondering when it might turn
deep rumbles and sharp flashes light up the sky
the roof leaks and the power goes out
poverty seeps into our hearts as the darkness grows
the wood swells and the bugs drown
here we are again, waiting for the storm to end
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC
New Orleans, the French Quarter
Her eyes illuminate in the streets
Jazz bands dance with her spirit
As the enchantment of the night begins
Her soul, out of body, out of mind
Like water, boundless, dances with devils
Under street lamps, in our world
Marionette strings sever into liberation
Oh! What freedom, to be, to exist
As an experience, unable to be captured
Not by the words that bind her to the pages,
Nor world which demands of her
All the while she knows,
She doesn't owe it a **** thing.
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 10:39 AM UTC
I am from my grandmother,who snuck out of the house to smoke camel non-filtered
I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.
I am from the pine tree with a water hose tied on it, where I imagined I was Indiana Jones.
I am from the woods, where the cicadas sang at night.
I am from the kudzu that blanketed the trees and menaced the garden.
I am from the apple trees in the front yard, whose fruit never turned red.
I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.
I am from my grandfather’s plaid pockets, where he would pull out suckers.
I am from my father’s mustang that i crashed into the driveway.
I am from my great-grandfather’s picture, proudly displayed on the wooden mantle.
I am from my grandmother’s bible stories, in the back bedroom where she read every night.
I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.
I am from Highway 494, where the trees were leveled to build subdivisions.
I am from the soft red clay and moist brown earth of the backyard.
I am from the moonlight I could see from the top of my house late at night.
I am from the sweltering heat and uncut grass in the front yard.
I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.
I am from the small cemetary past the corner store, where my grandfather lies next to my grandmother,
and my father next to her.
I am from Uptown New Orleans, where my daughter learns her A.B.C’s in the back bedroom
where she prays every night
I am from the brown bag from the Shell station that i fill with suckers, and sneak to her when her mom isn’t watching.
I am from the picture of us dancing at a music festival, her on my shoulders, displayed proudly on the wooden mantle.
I am not from from anywhere, in the middle of town
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC