Nineteen twenty ways
to love the same photo, I
remember, it all.
The blubbering moon,
was thumping like itself;
no matter, we go!
We entered the room,
and we became an image,
and drank until full.
Illuminating
hot seat, the material
IKEA, alone,
pristine sounds of loss,
a man and woman dancing
each others eyes, there.
Midnight morning fly,
buzzing flea-like, almost gone.
My window opens.
All the yakking dead.
My porch- old wood and sunset,
smoke diving within.
Suffocate us sea!
If you dare drink what we have!
Our stomachs fit you!
The Titanic floats,
the night swim will carry us,
calmly to ourselves.
Opaque sea-gulls fly;
we are but moon beams seeking.
Igniting ripples.
The taste of salt shouts,
it devours our tiredness.
Running beside us.
Half shore nearing us,
no other bodies near us,
we know only peace.
Inside our madness
there is every dream which wakes
wet steps, standing up.
Skin inked by needle,
below your growing wild hair,
moving, as it stays,
A religious book,
its pages moving in wind,
brown with gentle time.
Negative film roll,
opal, and doused with liquid,
so we are, so still.
Permeating dream
a leaf from burning tree branch
settling in grass.
Sudden flower bloom,
I watch you grow as days change.
Time, can never be.
Holocaustic love,
returning to the swap mind,
nothing stays buried.
The last beggar hangs,
he was a poet, a friend.
Servant girl watching.
Holograph song sings,
she is more awake than words.
I smile back at her.
Doorless buildings shine,
travelling up beyond us,
the meeting begins.
The office suite melts,
only listening to data.
So much for talking…
Peyote smoked.
Old tribes knowing how it goes.
Perfectly happy.
Madigras come now!
Alive smokin drunk street life!
Masks bleeding with ghosts.
Mine, yours, lit by fire.
Lets join the raining parade,
and grab a chicken.
They do it in the ethereal range of our eye’s linking hands,
our bodies swaying to the din of infinite types of drum life,
happy to be ours, enough to fill every street with realms,
packed dead-masked as New Orleans is definitely new my love – - !
the bar door requires a kick from our ripened legs,
it shatters the sweat stairs as we walk down finding the ground
inside leaving the painted parade to flood in on itself,
the chorus is tap tap tapped and stamped by the bar-man ready here
to cool us down and let us choose from any drink we wish.
In thick New Orleans accent he says:
“You been swimmin’ in the big Bayou brotha-sista.”
But it’s enough for us to answer him from the photo behind his bar.
We let him touch us, we sit frozen in front of a box camera and wonder
what’ll happen as the bulb flashes.
I pull ma Creole queen into me, as all galllreees open brotha-sista!
The photo be taken quick enough to ****** life from shotgun.
You’ll just keep on sittin there wontcha ma cher,
while these gumbo ya-ya come down ma stairs.
**** Mardi graaa…
A couple come down the wooden stairs.
Helping each other stand from too much street juice.
Looking back from the photo the barman knows that the couple
heard him talking, they slap down on the bar stools as he kisses the
photo of him and his wife.
“Well they be a truer than you or me cher, dontcha think?”
He says smiling back, more cheer than teeth, as the conversation begins,
undisturbed by the pulsing sounds from above.
