"voodoos" poems
I make my own soup and I kiss my own boo-boos,
I tell tall tales about love, hell, and voodoos.
I cover up my sadness with jokes, smoke, and malice
Who knew living a tragic life could feel so lavish?
God and I have a pretty tight relationship
I talk to him every night when my fingers touch my lips.
I throw my bones at dogs and contort my soul for fun,
Chewed up, spat out. I’m just like everyone.
-SLuR
Apr 21, 2021
Apr 21, 2021 at 10:30 PM UTC
Now sit there, just a minute, hold on, hear my tale
for just a minute.
One of humanity, sincerity, tragedy
Of when I was there, live from the square.
Jackson Square.
Not the one of Coin Coin, the Nevilles, the Toussaints,
Allen or L’Overture.
This is one of a momma and her baby
in 2008.
Three years, three years,
three years after the flood, three years after the storm.
Let me paint you a picture of Orleans as it stood one day in 2008
as it stands today.
2008, NewOrleans:
What happens here, no one will remember in the morning.
The buskers, the tunes, why, even the voodoos get the blues.
Walking towards Bourbon
The lights, the sin, the history
New Orleans, where life ain't so easy.
There’s a family down there who don't survive so peacefully.
You can see them if you walk down Canal St., leisurely.
There, sleeping on the courthouse stairs,
A mother and her child who own only the clothes they wear.
The boy was young, elementary-aged
Curious too, I could hear him ask questions:
"Mama, why don't we got food?"
And her reply,
"Son, that's just the way it is, life's just hard for me and you."
Sitting there on the courthouse stairs.
I take my place on the opposite side of the stoop,
Watching the crowds go by.
The women in their high-heeled shoes
The men with their shirts half-open.
Grenades in hand, ***** in the blood,
Pockets full of cash and hearts full of lust
New Orleans
What happens there, no one will remember come morning.
The buskers, the tunes, why, even the voodoos get the blues.
There’s a family on vacation there
In such a sinful city, a family.
White, middle-class, suburban, all too WASP-y.
mom, dad, a daughter and a son,
elementary aged, with a pop in his cheerful step,
On the way to a nice restaurant
gon’ eat crawfish, gator, red beans and rice, jambalaya.
They’ll forget to tip the waiter.
New Orleans,
What happens here, no one will remember come morning.
That happy family, walking down Canal St.
Like walking out the gates of hell
Where the lost souls sit on the stairs
Begging for something, anything at all
The happy family had ‘bout reached the courthouse when the young boy asked
"Daddy, why don't they have any food?"
His father covered his son’s eyes with his white hand and replied,
"Here son, let's go and find a toy for you to buy."
And the kid shrank after seeing this mom and her son
His innocent eyes died and he said,
"I don't want a toy. I don't want anything"
They walked on by, the happy boys' head turned the whole time,
those eyes. Stuck on the family that was stuck on the stairs
Mom dad, a daughter and a son,
Elementary-aged with a slump in his sunken step.
Now, in my mind I wonder:
was it more monumental that my life changed
or that a had life changed before my eyes
New Orleans, two thousand and eight.
New Orleans, today,
what happens there, no one will remember come morning.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
Steady pounding upon the bronze sides of hordes of men's helms,
only to realize the impenetrable god's gold is the fate of another realm.
Reincarnation, heaven and hell, 70 virgins, and many more voodoos fritter among as distraction, constructed to insurpassably shadow this pain.
Will the truth be revealed as a nonsensical stalemate?
Can we finally graduate to a more evolved interstate, and gravitate to the knowledge we accumulate over life's days.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC
TV iconoqueens,
late night show,
and mystery.
Newscast shpeel of oh rockafeel,
Where’s yo money now?
Wrapped up in a blinded bull,
grazing Wall Street pastures,
Black Sunday visits again,
in lack of green backs and jobs.
And the people, the mobs,
line up in 21st century bread lines
Only wanting to live,
And be free again,
From mortgage voodoos
and the Repo man's song...
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 4:41 PM UTC