To Mr Rice,

Keep on scratchin’ dem boards, sir

Fried catfish is slowin’  me down
all thanks to you
butterin’ those beans with the spicy hot

beer for the sweet southern smoke

hoofin’ poems off in the Treme
humbled amongst the greatness.

You put your arm around me
sat to chat to brag about your ghetto

Educating white folk in America’s first black hood
pimping all the horns and soul ladies in your family.

“Working,” as you say.

Your handshake is of a man of character
a person behind the persona

but you gots to go.

You spread some love to this Yankee,
“New Orleans is family…
Your other cities always makin’ ya look over your shoulder,
but we look out for each other’s here.”

Keep on talkin’
and keep on making that noise, Mr. Rice…

Keep on makin’ dat music!

af

(written after two nights with Mr. Rice)

“Why am I creepy?”

“Because you stare.  You stare and you ask questions and you do things that most people don’t do.”

“Why does that make me creepy?”

“Because I don’t know you so I don’t want you staring at me.  I don’t want – it feels violating.  Is that a viable answer?”

“You are uncomfortable being looked at so the burden is on me to stop?”

“It’s creepy.  That is all you are entitled to know.”

“There is no logic as to why looking at another human being is creepy.”

“Because you are a stranger.”

“So, look at it as an invitation rather than a closed door.”

Just then the pilot walked in.  He sat at the end of the bar, confident smile, confident posture, confident shiny fucking glasses.  He pissed me off because I wanted to be him.  He was able to say things like Hello, I think you are pretty without being considered creepy and You don’t need my credit card…I am a regular without being a cocky asshole.

I start getting sucked into my own head watching him ooze his oil all over the bar.  All I am being is myself yet I am the creeper for not putting on airs.  Besides…He has a mustache.  It does not get more creepy than a man in the urbanized twenty-first century with a stache, I think, secretly wishing I had not shaved that morning.

It does not take much these days to ignite my fuse, and her choosing the glamour of Mr Pan-Am over me makes me angry.

I stand up brusquely, and they look at me, and I stare back.

“He stares,” she giggles to him, and he giggles back, and they pay me no more mind.

So, in my defiance of their rudeness, I decide turn and walk to the bathroom to go to take a piss.  I had to go this whole time, anyway.

af

(written with pen on paper)

I go off sometimes;
Not enough people to talk to
so when I begin to write,
I just write and write and
I go off sometimes.

Like…

I’ll be writing about why
when I am in an intoxicated state of mind
I can see things moving
rings of light and energy;
I can feel vibrations.
But in getting that thought down on paper,
I will take a moment to think
stare into space
and notice how fast the clouds are moving across the sky and about
how there are multiple layers of clouds moving at multiple speeds
all different shades
and that where there are none, there is the most beautiful
blue sky
just patiently waiting to be seen.
» Read the rest of this entry «

I am ready to try
ready to get rid of my grudges
ignore them enough to make habit
of my true light through this fog
that, at this point, will not go away

(This thought you have is not original)

But it is my mantra;
Words I wish so hard to believe in
knowing the urban conclave of my wanderlust
is a cold stone neutralizer of creativity…
…true, earthly creativity
…pure, natural creativity

(This is a world that does not exist)

But, for me,
thinking and believing it does
is enough to motivate me to
strive for redemption

The angle at which I look at a thought
is what determines if that thought actually exists

(But you know this already)

And I am ready to try

(But you have declared that before)

And I am ready to try…
…look where I am
…the ideas I have
are
real

I do not deserve any of this that I have
but I am damn grateful enough to know
that there is no ultimate success
no final goal-based purpose -

(Moving forward, always)

- that there are only attempts and results
and I am grateful enough, also,
to at least
keep trying

af

(written with pen on paper)

i

am

grateful

that

i

am

different

Make bold statements into the face of life
in spite of life
in the light of the darkened dawn
that creeps through
the exhaustion of deprivation and delirium
and when you are low man on the totem pole
staring into contentious faces
frustrated with egotistical redundancy
scream your confident screams
kick over the bullshit
smiling through all its adversity
and be proud of that confidence…

haters will always hate,
but that don’t mean you shouldn’t always love

af

(written with pen on paper)

Smelling the aged wood as I arrive
a stranger in this empty building
always the first to arrive
always the last to leave…
seems that that is always when the good memories are created
when the life worth reminiscing about happens;
the stimulation of senses that very few ever get to experience
the still anticipation of life
the birth of death;
the subliminal moments before the doors open and
after the gig is over

That is as close to god as I could get
and that is enough purpose for me.

af

(written with pen on paper)