Guest Poet: Hurricane Isaac -- Cowboy Coffee

Most of the water came from the sink
A mockery of the apron to the jeans and T-shirt
It was sworn to protect
The shoes: dull leather spreading
From toe to-- he(a)el

Stand down

Roll a cigarette and lean
Against the door post

Soups on
An herbal mash of leaves and twigs
From whatever trees were up the street
Twelve or so blocks down

Will the water leave welts
Or red in the shape of the hand of a palm
And though it’s only slightly less wet inside
The velocity in which its propelled
Is significantly divergent

Ok, maybe you can stop the world
From going about its business
And watch the faces through the windows
Recall from memory how they used to smile
Used to frown
Used to tremble lips with nostrils flared

And eyebrows furrowed bridged and closed
With eyes that never missed
The opportunity to surprise

Not like now how they leveled forward
In a trance
Never moving
From their stalking glance

Never minding
What they saw

Never closing
Never flawed

It’s just business, after all
And you can’t stop business
From going about the world

And passing promissory notes
For broken promises

Shoot from the hip, cowboy

Sit around the fire
There are cowboy things to talk about
And these are cowboy times
And there is plenty
Of cowboy coffee

Guest poet: Hurricane Isaac -- Pull

The stranger went all through the house
And turned off every light
Even those in use
His excuse: He was trying to sleep
He was well into the next morning

 From inside they still hollered and bustled
Trying to take home the end of last night
The unreasonableness of each at their plight

 But prodigal or not the sun returned
And the house became flat and tepid
Those still within growled and deflated

 It was actually the sun’s fifth attempt
And each time they boiled

 Unnecessary rage, perhaps
But they couldn’t help how they felt
Any more than the elasticity of the cypress trees
Granted them just one more dance

 Look, the horizon is vertical now
There’s no sense in arguing with the dynamics
Of polar skews
When there’s no other good reason
That water would fall from
Just down the street

 There’d be no condensation if it weren’t cold to begin with
The elements at each other, they tug

 Pull

 Look, just pull on it

 There’s tension now

 They’s sick, they’re tired
They’re not sleeping much these days

 Try to unwind them
Only to see what they’re made of

 Pull

 Not too hard now

 Even a slight tug
Will create tension

 Now open your eyes and
See what you’ve done

 It’s OK
Turn the lights off if you

 Need your sleep

Music: alive

It’s hard to remember when Beaux walked into the courtyard at Bacchanal, his voice stern with more than just a small concern as he shouted between songs that the harbor police were just outside the establishment handing out parking tickets like they were handbills for the next big backyard party. It was the beginning of a year-long offense by the city against this proud wine and food gem at the edge of the Bywater, followed shortly thereafter by threats and orders to shutdown music at the newly established Marigny Opera House, Siberia, and, most recently, the Circle Bar. It’s a rumbling feeling that must be deep in the stomachs of every club owner and musician, the looming question of: who’s next? Who’s safe if even an institution like the Circle Bar can have their livelihood taken away from them overnight? But music is alive and thriving in New Orleans, the courtyard that was briefly a ghost-town at Bacchanal is again full of people listening to new inventions being machinated in realtime directly into their ear canals by the Lynch-inspired music of the Log Ladies.

Even in the midst of summer, open in every direction to the unforgiving elements, they come from all over the city to get away from the city-approved attractions meticulously crafted to cater to the long drunken tourist-nights. It’s alive in balconies and back-rooms on Frenchmen St., on weekday nights and second-hand festivals, at art-spaces and theaters; it’s a howl carrying over the miasma that rebels-- that the city in all its attempts to balance its budget at the expense of its musical tradition can never stifle creativity.

Meanwhile Bourbon St. is still echoing loudly the top 40 hits as swarms shout over their fluorescent-green funnels of alcoholic Hi-C at decibel ranges that beg the nepotism-enforcement of City Councilwoman Kristin Gisleson Palmer’s noise ordinance laws, as new zoning goes into affect to divide the city into sanctioned and rogue music-producing territories. And while the city audits its records to determine who does and who doesn’t have the right to host live music, I have to question the implications of requiring an establishment to possess a permit to host live music. It is a conclusion based on a false premise, that music is a commodity only to be sold and not an expression of creativity, for if we accept that the performance of music is not an inherent right, then we threaten two of our country’s most basic principles, freedom of speech and the right to assemble.

So as we as musicians and music-lovers are made outlaws hiding out in the aural badlands, examine the actions of this city’s administration and ask yourselves if at each closing haven it is the attempt to further encapsulate the history of New Orleans’ music for the easy digestion of tourists, a tax-reformation, or a bid to favor a sub-minority of gentrifying special-interest groups. Many are asking themselves what they can do to protect the music, whether it be on the streets, the clubs, or special venues, but it will always be there because we will always seek it out. Our greatest weapon in the war against music is our ears. Make some noise, and be receptive to the noise others’ make. Find it in all forms. Grow with it. Support it and the music will never stop.

Scavengers

It’s pretending to rain now
And you can see the huddled crowd
Beneath the tree-branch awnings
As they retreat to dryer surroundings;
Or so they pretend

The drops they feel,
Splashing,
Touch the faces
That look toward the heavens
And pray for a placebo.

They are scavengers
Looking for the scraps of faith
Others left behind,
And with their crumbling hands
They pick the city dry.

It’s pretending to be prosperous now
And all my friends cup their hands
To catch the coins which trickle down
And pluck the coupons from the sky;
Or so they would believe.

They are proper citizens.
They wait for it pour
And would not dare to bother with
A little something more
For fear that they would ask too much.

And all that charity
Which by allowance they’re to live--
The means of their allotted sum--
Is a dream that if they buy just one
The other will come free.

I’m pretending to be a beggar now
And I can close my eyes and see the faces
Rushing with imaginary rain
Because their broken shelters
Can’t occupy one more.

And all the outstretched arms
Are to embrace all that we have,
As little as it sometimes seems,
And overwhelming as a needy child
Agreeing with that which we’ve tried;

Imaginary friends plucked from
All the molded faces
That I’ve ever known.
We’re pretending to agree now
That it’s just a little storm

Uncanny Valley, Goodbye

When not enough is left to utter
The syllables it takes to say,
Goodbye--
Disassembled and developed,
Laid upon the ground,
Like the girded gridlock
On your smog befitted brow...

Goodbye.

And what if I said, hello?
What if I said, good day?
Would it change your sunken body
And repair your sullen clay?

Your borrowed whispers,
Stolen, used, and pawned-off ways.

And in the middle of the murk
In some forgotten, shackled watts,
You sing in requiem for all the memories forgot,
With bloody eyes for virgins buried
To the consequences wrought,
And shut your eyes
Beneath the oceanic sky.

So long, little sugar-- We promise it was fun
You may not even remember us-- Or whether it was really worth a fuss
But hold on to your shoulders-- Before you sprout those wings
The days that passed-- Are only days that last
So long as they begin

A Dahlia Llama on Muholland Drive
Once confessed to me with cardboard sign,
It didn’t matter what the price was paid
If it concluded in a deal.

Will fuck for food.
Will fuck for money.
Will fuck it all, the fucks are funny.

She laid upon cement
Once coveted by creeks
And wondered what her lower torso
Had managed to collect
From stillborn dreams,
Parties missed,
And a lifetime of neglect.

So long, little sugar-- We promise it was fun
You may not even remember us-- Or whether it was really worth a fuss
But hold on to your shoulders-- Before you sprout those wings
The days that passed-- Are only days that last
So long as they begin

When not enough is left to
Reassemble what was left
Of tiny fragments left
To trickle down the leaning left
And right the wrongs of those who left--

You who were so beautiful,
So clean,
Were flowers picked over by all those vile,
Designed so elegantly to defile.

Those lacerations and your broken bones
Are mere results from all your stubborn charm;
A lip split open from the bite of crazed desire
By all your insane dolls
With nothing left but to admire
The preciseness of it all.

So long, Uncanny Valley...



Uncanny Valley, goodbye

From Out of Hibernation...

About two years ago I heard the soft, muted sounds of the unknown calling for me to embark upon a journey of discovery and adventure, which I would document if not for the distractions awaiting me at every step. I have known times of work and I have known times of play, and somewhere between I have battled with pen and notebook their whispered beckons at no small loss. For too long I have ignored this blog which I carefully sculpted over days and hours, only to set it aside with faint aspirations for its eventual return. And from out of hibernation it awakens with a newfound hunger.

This is my central location for all the projects and happenings in my care, for the words I have been writing and the groupings I have been coordinating, to be heard. There should be much to talk about over the next few months, and plenty of material to catch up on. Keep an ear out and wish me luck, for of my three muses Procrastination is probably the loudest.