The forest must have been colorful,

peeling off greenish yellow towards rusty brown

The ground is soggy, paths unclear

branches and wind-blown vegetation.

There must have been walkers huddled

or full with their face in the watery sun,

who was perhaps there. They must have looked disapproving

or agreeing. There were also solid beech nuts,

chestnuts or a single *****; fall in November

as you know it, from before and pictures. I don't remember.

You were there.

I lament the days to come

they’re empty and look

so useless without



your words they moved

my view of things and

anointed the way



I look towards life

and living in a broad

perspective it’s seems



in vain, so now all

that’s left are forgotten

words memories of



brightness and a

sun that fades into

an ocean of emptiness



no flowers please

acquisitions are not

appreciated

In his glass world
he seems to float
embryonic smooth and white,
not pure white but rather yellowish

watched by thousands of eyes
far from his ilk,
alligators in green, out there,
innocent, harmless

it seems as if they, in the evening
after the last visitors have left,
pull the valve out of his back
and let the air and life leave him

At the third street on the left
from Bourbon Street,
the reddish brown waterline
follows us to the hotel

The sleek white walls appear
to be from ‘after Katrina’
like many here

In the spring sun
the pale green lies deserted
in the shadow of
a long line of soot
coughing cars

Where Sachtmo's park
seems forgotten
after cleaning and renovation

is the home of this
other musician with worldly
allure, like a fresh blueberry
on a flat beaten hill
full of loose ends

There is one living
in every street
of this city
or more

they do not constitute a partnership
have no mores
nor do they share a front door

the shame keeps them
indoors, their actions in the shade
of the past, tucked away in deep drawers
behind bankthick vault doors

any reference to the events
from the past
may cause irreparable
damage to the
mental health

This city breathes the blues
buried just under the skin
in the memory of cleaners
and slaughter

Here the gospel travels
from mouth to heart
and it offers comfort
as by-catch of the bottle

The center as a pacemaker
in an old and worn out body
is waiting for the final lines
from a song by Muddy Waters

"You ain't gonna trouble
poor me, anymore "