I have worked too hard these past few years
convincing myself I have all the answers
and now after thousands of miles driving
and now after hundreds of miles walking
I am realizing as I sit in this cafe
that I do not even know shit about shit;

Now I am reduced to
a weary righteous traveller
trying finally to think before I write

…and absolutely nothing is coming out

Humility is a good fine place to begin…
but what in the spirit’s good world happens next?

af

(written with pen on paper)

Here’s to those who stress
and to those who are sick as a result.
Here’s to the neurotic, the panicked, the perplexed.
Here’s to those who cry themselves to sleep.
Here’s to those who sleep alone.

Here’s a toast to the readers of human inflection
and one to the observers of mankind’s darkest obsessions.
Here’s to mortality and all it has to offer
resting the quiet and inspiring the living.

Here’s to the homeless begging for food
next to the scraps overflowing in the trash.
Here is to the hoarders of man-made treasure
wishing for purpose amongst all of their waste.

Here’s to everyone who simply forgot.
Here’s to the shrewd who drink to forget.
Here’s to the junkie who tries to remember
all of the lives we are bred to expect.

And here’s to the despondent, the drifters, the depressed
a beer for the imperfect, those I know best,
sipping too many of my words away
when I should be at sleep in a home and at rest.

af

(written with pen on paper in the cemetery at the foot of Canal)

Everyone needs someone to listen to them
now and then
We all want to be known
want to know we matter

Those of us who never learned
are always looking for answers
for justification of who we can’t help but be
…especially when no one will listen

That is why I always listen to those who ramble:
to the guy who knows he can write a bestseller
to the woman who knows she could love & be loved
to the addict who knows he could get clean
to the children who know they create
the most wonderful worlds from their imaginations
to the artist who knows he has a purpose
to myself who feels worth in my simplicity

Knowledge talks
and wisdom listens
so I try not to ignore and roll my eyes anymore…

Who am I to judge what is crazy or insignificant?

af

(written in little notebook)

Who Dat?

Thoughts in the head

gotta get on paper
free this soul

Who Dat?

Brass Gumbo Beauties

all the spirits of my past
family ain’t no family no more

Who Dat?

Bucket full of shells

sweet smelling breath
holes in my stomach and holes in my blues

Who Dat?

Who I is

who I could be
who is who I try to be

Who Dat?

Who dat there tryin’ to
escape from this flesh?

af

(written in little notebook in retrospect)

It ain’t the yuppie of The Angels;
No show and flash of Chi-Town;
Or the wall st drudge of New Amsterdam…

This town don’t cater to us;
We cater to the town:

The black dude shakes
the aggressor’s hand
The white dude
stands
ready to fight
Jesus watches over us all in the square;
The ghosts giggle down the alleys;
Voodoo is the religion
and no one gives a damn about any rules.

Life all is only what it is
and when it’s not
well
ya always got those horns blowin’…

af

(written in the middle of the night in the middle of the french quarter)

Rule Number One
Bartender is
Always
Right

Rule
Number Two
Fuck Jimmy Buffett

Rule Number Three
Hot sauce
Bubba’s
on everything
from seafood gumbo
to red beans rice ‘n’ fried chicken

“You here, ain’t you?
Then be here…
Welcome to the real world, son.”

And,
most importantly:

Rule Number
Four

You
Can’t Drink All Day
If
You
Don’t Start In The Morning!

“No storm ain’t gunna
blow us
away…
not anymore.”

af

(written night two at Coops)

Jambalaya
Blown brass
Beer and blasting hot sauce burning my guts
…this shit’s hot!

My brain is bleeding

Free drinks for all
the bartender announces

“I don’t make shit that kills people…
I make the shit that is responsible
for you not speaking fucking Japanese right now.”
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