I don't know what you're thinking
(if you're thinking)
but I want you to take a minute to rethink it
(or just think)

This doesn't have to turn to shouts
(it always did)

365Nectar #8    Crescent City Blues                      
Tues. Oct 1,2013 10:21 P.M.

In the deepest attic
the thumping blues
paint pastel portraits
of the Crescent City

In burning ripples
words slap strangers
taking refuge in Armstrong Park

Slender, ****, and Shorty
growl muted tones that ravage old bones
whip thru Mid-City
and saunter thru the Garden District
all just practice to sizzle in a wild tap dance in the Quarter

High steppin Indians
march toward God
and defy gravity.

Roaring second line
being led by woman powered Pinettes Brass Band
hold rush hour traffic hostage for days
belting greasy mingling tunes
in the eye of the dusty moon

A pitch black struggle
with the old moon
liberated old souls
entangled in soaked strings
and sobbing fingers

A quintet churns and
challenges the loneliness of pain

Strumming fingers
make out with
humming strings
under a starry blue grey sky

Stomping down long black Oak-lined roads
blowing thru shotgun homes
like winter cold howling
lifting heavy weights
from shoulders
like the sun shifting against bad weather
the blues lady
open the veins
of drunken roses

Lungs full of tears
Irma holla's, cries, and moans remedies
north south east and west of a street called Desire
Oh Etta
At Last

Dim Misty light
cast a heavy shadow
on wiggling spirits
as they cast off pain
Allen Toussaint
in smokeless blaze
tips the night air

Kermit blows
Dusty blues
seducing suffering souls
bounding them to each other in bliss

Whispering around town
in a perfect velvet midnight
sweet exhalations of song birds from corner joints
dance the Ruffin groove

fiery trebles wave at people passing by

Down right ***** blues
muzzles twilight
trombones,tubas, and trumpets
lay harmony
under the harmonious thunder
of the Marsalis Masters
and low down deep
in a musty sleepless corner
is the missing Bass-man..

hung over.

Copyright ©2013  Crescent City Blues

and slowly i'll drift
away from you
with each passing day
they say
that absence makes the heart grow fonder
but sometimes absence makes you forget
forget the smiles shared
and the moments you got lost in
forget the poems i wrote
and the time spent wishing just
for one moment
i could call you mine
not like my property,
but mine
and i'll forget what color your eyes are
and how your laugh made me feel warm
and i'll forget who drew me that picture
i'll forget how your arms felt around me
i'll forget all the things you were so passionate about
and the things you didn't like
i'll forget where we met
and all the fun we had that summer
and the letter that i wrote you
i'll forget your smell and your thoughts about politics
i'll forget which music was your favorite
and all the little things that made you tick
but i bet you'll forget me too
you'll forget my love of puns
or how I'm a bibliophile
you won't remember my laugh
or my smile
or how I cannot dance
you'll forget what color my eyes are
and  my yellow rain boots
you'll forget about my novel
and my love of poetry
i'll forget about you
and you'll forget about me
we'll go in different directions
totally different paths
i'll be on a plane to Wales
and you'll be on a plane to Italy
and maybe i'll see you in the airport someday
maybe i'll recognize your voice
maybe i'll remember how i should have tried
maybe i made the wrong choice
will it really be that easy to forget you
i don't think there's a chance at that
will it be easy to forget me?
or did i make a big impact?

These days I pull out my hair just to feel some relaxation.
It’s weird, and I know that, and I don’t want you to lecture me or tell me something I already know about tics and trictillomania.
I’m off, and I know it.
Let me breathe, okay?
I could just end it all, I guess, but that’s what I’m afraid of.
The end.
And naturally, on average,
I’m nowhere near the last chapter of my story,
but that doesn’t do much to calm me.
Must keep on living.
Must live.  
Must do more things.
Learn more.
Be more.

My
   mind
      feels
           like a fire
             that was started
                             by   chain-smoked    thoughts.

I think that I might be;
does that mean I am?