prismatic elation

for new orleans

brothers rappin
tappin the beat
with tapped sneakers
stompin the beat
watching people
out in the street
workin rythmn
so the can eat
and in nightfall
slowly retreat
to courtyards

pork lard and beans
clean wooden floors
protect secret
shared garden lore
and the wind blows
while children snore
breathin heavy
while out their door
drunk tourists shout
and riots soar
like Bourbon

urban mornings
mourning the night
locals awake
early to fight
the heat to sell
tourist delights
and earn freedom
from the dark plight
of condemned slums
with all their might
and Voodoo

true to haitians
nations rely
on the sacred herbs
that mamas dry
making potions
from bones and eyes
with blue balls and ritual cries
duality
'tween the Earth and Sky
so don't spread

sacred stories
glories untold
you'll catch a glimpse
buy what is sold
local paintings
may reveal gold
pay attention
to what is told
every whisper
may soon unfold
mystery

history seams
dreams in a bow
infinite paths
and fields to sow
with cotton sores
cleansed by the flow
mississippi
waters don't slow
setting the pace
for jazz to grow
like Taro

automatic new orleans 1

cafe of the world
trellised curls
fall from triangular hats
over the ears of fast moving waitresses
who will retire to trellising balconies
and brood up potions
to bring enough money
to pay the bills
cults of dark night walkers
purse the streets looking for vicitms
worthy of violent carnage
unsuspecting drunks
pan out
lost from the heat of night
and too many hand grenades
strange run arounds
and circles spun by voodoo priestesses
in attempt to keep the mystery
in line and in time with the history
while small shops sell
tastes of religion
for three times the price
thrice you may pass the same place
only to find that it never existed
in haste you run to the river
bounding over train tracks
while mississippi smells tingle
your senses mingle with the thick moist air
not a care in the world
as everyone celebrates
eatin' crawdads and gumbo with cornbread on the side later
eatin' po'boys on decater
staring at waiters as their faces begin to shine
from persperation and trepidation
wondering why they don't play sax in the street
to earn their eats
ants crawl over feet
in retreat of larger bugs in the kitchen
and i'm itchin' to see joe
he's an artist that i know
he paint's the world through bottle bottom lenses
and questioned the millenium for the sake of young travellers
street dwellers
turn to stone after 2am
avoid arrest
is this a test
can dreams come true with a little voodoo
hoodoo in time with ritual chants
drummers prance out into the street
keeping the beat
rat ta do do ta bat bidat ti do
and the sax screams through the night
drudging souls
out of the cemetary
to do their dance
in a trance
and the colors are streaming out of bead stores
and the tourist bars move quicker
as the air gets thicker
and my movements get slower
and the river is flowing
out into the gulf i gulp
close my eyes
but the beat is too strong
rat ta doo do ta bat bidat ti doo do
and the tones piercing
boo doo do wa ah ooh bododoowa ah oh
and the chants too true
and there are spirits in my shoes
morning comes and only the memory of drums remain

automatic new orleans 2

i stroll down the french quarter
bonjour
admiring the trellesed balconies
old time jazz music gently drifts out of store fronts
mixing and mingling tones in a barrage of rythmn
bod doo do wa ah oh bododoowa ah oh
saxaphones hum out licks and artists fill the streets
taking in the sounds and the heat
sticky humidity that can be cut through
by tourists and business men
then coffee
fast moving waitreses in triangular hats and white medical shoes
glide through the busy cafe du monde

automatic new orleans 3

the morning came un-expected
with screaming sirens and local bustle.
not tired i stroll the balcony lined streets
now quieted for a brief moment as the day dwellers softly awaken
and the night crawlers crawl into bed.
i find a lone mother of thousands lieing beside a potted tree.
i sigh reclining myself to the sidewalk.
it is refreshing to see plants in this city; so old and material.
life is shaded here.
even the homes are hidden amongst courtyards with storefront facades
and no invitations.

prove me wrong

if i were to commit myself to writing
it would take me 2,085 days of writing one worthy idea a minute
for eight hours a day
to compile a body of 1,000,000 worthy ideas

meditation

we must forge towards higher elevation

the old days

it's that sound
that makes the sun spin
radiating my skin
i turn within
my thoughts
begin to spin like ink drops
my heart stops
skips beats
to a blue monkey rythm
as i stomps my feets
to Chuen my meditation
communication my motivaton
and also my methods of creation