The photographs accompanying these poems were salvaged from my flood-destroyed home and studio in New Orleans in August 2005.
* Â Â * Â Â *
Nurse Bertie — 10 years later
Apples are dropping early this year.
Meanwhile high noon on Magazine Street
Corner kids with masks
Play on the buckled roots of live oak trees.
Standing in the middle of them
In between the celebrations
I take pause to notice Nurse Bertie
On her way to work.
Late last night she got a phone call
From the other side of this half raised town
Her youngest great grandchild
DOA the cop said.
Now we both study
The cracks in pavement slabs.
Her body shaking in polished shoes
And a freshly starched pressed uniform.
Both of us determined
Not to cry or make a scene
Until this anniversary is long gone
And Christmas rolls around.
* Â Â * Â Â *
3 a.m. feels smooth cruising St. Charles Avenue
The unfolding landscape collapses
Into collapsing angels heaving
Anticipative breaths.
A breeze ruffles our mops of wig hair
Our minds funnel through the taxi windows
Propped up by the humid hot air.
The stench and fumes of existence
Engulfs our nostrils and singes the senses
Into a living giving molecule of refreshing life.
Rolling into happiness
Silver smiles screech past us
As we cruise with a need to name
Every smile on every passing pedestrian face.
Patterns appear random and synchronized to sounds.
Life size vibrations bounce from our tongues
Then float on past forever out of view.
Colliding cadencies empty into unknowns
As we huddle crying in tears of Ecstasy
In the damp back seat of our make believe chariot.
Thankfully our driver seems happy.
For sure we are tipping him enough.
3am feels smooth
Cruising St. Charles Avenue.
Although we cannot see any stars
we know they must be up there
Commenting on how fast
25 miles per hour can feel.
Noticing how recognizable buildings
Reconstruct themselves into fairy tale monuments
we laugh like ring tones before undressing
Sending what is left of my mind into delightful confusion.
Based on our purest wacky non being selves
I write poetic verse on a parking ticket
as our taxi hits an open drain.
You read my words then cry
then throw the ticket away.
No damage done.
We head downtown again.
Come over my tingling teeth you laugh.
WWOZ is leaving the production line
With jazz burning with ecstatic soul
And rap beats pumping the dashboard.
Hypnotic across the windshield
The wipers swing commas and clown hats
As we dangle our feet out the window
Claiming everything tastes electric.
I give our driver my last crumpled twenty.
For sure our nerves are morphing.
Bouncing at the stoplight
Diamond constellations replacing
The red, ambers and greens.
The driver turns off the meter
and keeps on cruising.
Passing underneath live oak tress
wrapped in strange moss fabric.
mister slow down if you like you say
there are still so many images we have yet to caress.
so many humans on the tip of our tongues
at least until the meter breaks free
at least until we stumble home
in a cloud of glitter to find the curb
has replaced our throne.
Tiptoeing into the Audubon Hotel
You wave thank you with a soft slew
of see y’all later.
Dizzy with the unglued traffic
I watch our ride slide into a new day.
Noticing the remains of uncertainty
Wash away with this rain
in between the seconds and lifetimes mingling
with new beginnings and a slew of second chances
given freely perhaps as the universe parades
in its own unique way
blessing us all with the vibes of New Orleans.
