New Orleans - Freshly Pressed


A fiery lane of creativity weaves through New Orleans

A rapidly humming artery serenading life on the losing lane

This city's teeming intestine is getting high on

A plethora of partially starving street artists bred on

Voodoo, booze and tortured tales of the Southern Soul

Ponderous plantations peddle their oak alley chic

Gothic wine encases and releases Creole flair

French and Spanish pass each other the linguistic stick


'Nawlins' is broken but hopeful


A hearth that warms illusion’s dreams

Breeding bohemian escape that stubbornly denies a life under siege

The town's ancestry is motley culture to its core

Its plurality proving easy entry to a

Faulkner-Tennessee Southern Melancholy

Her appearance boasts the dexterously divergent

The singularly downtrodden

The ones, lost to the common crowd

Her lavish dwellings offer up labyrinthine musings

Her lush vegetation harbors secret ceremonies

The Garden District invites a midday streetcar reverie

As does sitting on the banks of the meandering Mississippi

Unbridled indulgence is her preferred amusement

With Bourbon Street past ghost hour featuring infamous openings


Inside her copious entrails simmers undaunted audacity

Found in a rogue section of genteel society

Defeating heat is the trademark of her breath

Cradling uneasy loneliness while hastening various steps

Nostalgia hangs in tangled strips from moss laden trees

The pavement of a sedimentary lyrical space


Gangly ghosts play house in old society homes

Their phantom silhouettes track errant steps past sunset

These are deserted streets of the faceless many with their thick soliloquies

Regurgitating nightly excess as garbage left for grabs

The remnants of last night's moody jazz solos

Imbuing stranded hearts with collapsing da capos

They speak of jarred tales and wayward goals


Louisiana's roughed up jewel


A chapped prism surviving and insubordinately thriving on

Tingly tastes of the teetering tongue

Her spirit blows beautifully - pitifully

Past nickel n’ dime insufficiency

Blending the humid, the stagnant, the delightfully repellent

Into a potpourri of harmoniously clashing essence

She is queen to eccentrics, who hawk their craft in corner poesy


Siren songs of the descending Mississippi


It's the city where paper napkin prose

Distills literary vigor from petulant sores

Where music emanates from gaps in fissured walls

A place that seeks perfection in the art of pesky flaws

She encourages a brew of fanciful toasts

Full of saturated tones and sordid prose

Her unfathomable appeal resonates proud and daring

Her intemperate, idealistic magnificence seeks refuge

In shotgun housing finding solace in golden age pandering

These wooden floors and straight shooting rooms

Imprints of old summer lore answering

 The rallying call for truncated deliverance

An apocalyptic appeal in festive decor

There's no escaping the vampire vein

Rushing through her ravenous core


This city with her owl eyes


Watching over brazen promises and silently issued pleas

Her life blood runs on a chipped belief of owed freedom

Menstruating whimsical speeches

Her geographical body is a tapestry of topographical art

Her pulsating womb an artist's compromised canvas

Of streets in heat, of dimly lit corner stores

Of masquerades masking lives

Her arms open to the whisper of a plaintive song

To minstrel melodies of wandering pasts

Throwing together the rotten and the ripe

A pleasant enough cohabitation of paradoxes

An oxymoronic radiance of misfits

Favoring stubbornly penned latrine lyrics


Such is her complexity

That she gains clean access into makeshift space


Our Lady Duality in her tattered lace