Old Big Muddy

I haven't lived my life.
My life has lived me.
It's taken me places
that I never dreamed I'd be

from doorways in San Francisco
and songs of peace and love,
to warehouses in New Orleans
where junk flowed into dirty arms
like Mississsippi River Water
and "Proud Mary" floated like
fragrant fog behind lost plaster brick
in the Cities of the Dead.

My life has carried me like
a leaf caught in that Old Big Muddy,
..rolling me on down
to the Gulf,

washing me out to the
crystal blue waters of the Carribbean
and onto the blinding whiteness
of great gleaming yachts where
gleaming white plastic people
told gleaming white plastic lies
over the tinkle of fresh ice
in the "just two tiny drops
of vermouth'' martinis
and the extra dry gin and tonics
that flowed like Mississippi River Water
past strands of diamonds and pearls
coiling like vines
around elegant throats
and nearly choking the life out of me.


And the bayou waters that boil in my blood
have carried me to the
streets of D.C.
where the peak of pious
political pretension
served high tea under the
watchful eyes of tangible ghosts
of thirty-five dead president's wives
and several who were still alive,
an "honor" dreamed not of
but endured stoically
as befitted my "position" in life.

And those balmy basin winds
have blown me to the far north
where the aurora borealis
danced in my eyes like spirits of the damned
and the great bear that wandered
overhead almost ate my soul
before the Chinook came in
and warmed that frozen wasteland
to wash me in the meltwater
back to that Old Big Muddy

and deposit me here
on the banks of the bayous
among the neat brick houses
and manicured lawns
of middle class suburbia
where coffee clatches
and Sunday bar-b-ques
nibble at my spirit like the
smoke billowing gas powered trimmers
nibble at the persistent weeds that
force their way through the thick
containing roots of pristine St. Augustine that
so completely covers the darkness
of the dirt underneath,
and prozac and valium flow like
Mississippi River Water.

But those eternal blue skies
are beginning to darken
and the clouds that gather
on the smouldering horizon tell me
that the waters will be rising again,
and that once more I'm gonna
find myself caught in the swirl
of that Old Big Muddy,
washing like a leaf
to the sea...

....don't know if i'm gonna wait for it this time...

think I'm gonna trade in my
nice middle class suburban van
and buy myself a Harley
and outrun that flood,
then ride until I die
or until I find the place
where the highway
turns to sand

far from the reach of those
swirling muddy waters,
far from the reach of those
gleaming white plastic people,
far from the ravenous teeth
of the great sky bear,

where i can sleep out under the stars

                                        ...and dream again.

 

The Coming Storm

Sultry South Louisiana air
weighs heavy on old men
peddling shrimp and dreams
from white styrofoam icechests
that ride like Mardi Gras revelers
in the backs of pickup trucks.

Seafood and sanity
both meet untimely ends
in the heat of July
when the afternoon sky
sends hailstorms and heat lightening
with equal contempt for the comfort
of porch sitters and street prophets
who find scarce shelter
under green striped awnings
or ancient oaks
whose limbs bear the weight
of a multitude of years.

Spanish moss drips
like melting metal
in the stillness that portends
the coming of the rain.
Soiree's and sweet sweat
and old black men in rocking chairs
and the languid scent of
magnolia...

but always, just a breath away,
just beneath the surface
of that humid heat,
lies the fetid smell of
decay...

and ladies press
lace handkerchiefs
to delicate noses,
and wait in scripted southern silence
for the storm
that will clear the air
and wash them free.

 

Lullabye of Railroad Street

Heat lightening
silent flashes on a distant horizon
where smouldering clouds ferment
all sane intention
and the wine of misbegotten realizations
drips from a magenta sky
washing threads of truth into gutters
where the skeletal remains of sanity
dances with teenaged whores
and toothless grandmothers
deal dysfunction into into
neatly stacked little piles of pain.

Down on Railroad Street,
the whole world burns
and the lives of lost children
bubble in the spoon
alongside the dry bones of dreams
of a better day.
Poverty lays like dust in hollow eyes
that see no sun
and swells the bellies of babies
whose cries go unheard
amid the din of damnation.

Lay some smack down, lay some smack down,
lay some smack down on you,...
and the lullabye of Railroad Street
plays on in endless swirling madness
splintering into notes of dead tomorrows
that fall mute upon strident ears
that will not hear...

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