These last couple of days in The Big Easy

image by Carl Gibson

by Carl Gibsonimage by Carl Gibson


I never spoke to you of New Orleans coated in powdered sugar, strangled cayun pepper. I long for both up and down I over Lake Pontchartrain hands gliding across folksongs singing birds on wire lines. I never promised celestial shores or spoke of the five horns slow dancing across. I never said what it means to miss New Orleans. Free New Orleans. Defend New Orleans. Pianos in the courtyard singing to vampires in the architecture. I ask to spread myself across that place, the one that made me long while life drifted off on notes in the air entangled in the Kudzu.


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