View current page
...more recent posts
A Regular Conduit
Early morning dreaming has me trying to focus on the pleasure of lost loves, sex doesn't get any safer, but the object of my mental yearning slips the snare and instead appears she with the last name that is a color, only ever a casual acquaintance, but what an incredible presence she projected on that morning seated across from me at my dream table. Even now, deep breathing her image calms in me whatever lay riled.
It is a mixed bag though, that which goes on inside me, and focus is not a strength I lay claim to. Because focus would have me better controlling the images of my dreamworld instead of what really happens. Case in point the middleclass (in every sense of the word) housewife from the suburbs (probably Metairie, La.), seated across the table from me this morning who rather demands that I call Jesus and ask Him a question to which she desperately needs an answer. I evidently have a hotline to Jesus because only a few numbers dialed has Him responding audibly and patiently (amazing really, the patience, when one considers how many of these calls He must receive in a day) , and I then look over to the housewife (who is now talking to another woman) so she can relay her question through me and she looks perturbed that I should interrupt her conversation with another housewife. Her audacity is such that I explode with vehemence, letting her know quite frankly that Jesus and I are busy people and how dare she interrupt our busy schedules with her carefree commonality and less than adroit mental capacity.
And even inside a dream I know this dream has been occurring since I shut off the alarm, so times up, no perfect lovers for me this morning, and disappointment on top of disappointment, I had Jesus on line and didn't even think to ask him could he nudge it just a bit (okay a whole lot) and put the Saints in Superbowl 2002, inside the Superdome.
Four Doors
The first gangster came running from behind me while I sat on a bucket next to the stolen white Buick staring at the back of the Rocheblave house (with the rapidly decaying Iberville dance hall to my back), considering work done and work to be done, much, and I barely had the care of this world to turn my head around to see what all his oncoming commotion (the climbing of the vine covered cyclone fence, and his exclamations and panting made quite a bit of noise) was about and then I saw him to recognize him, and nodded barely, while he just kept trucking along through my back yard and then across the vacant lot next to me on his way to the corner of Rocheblave and Iberville, pulling those goofy oversized gangster-pants up every other stride, and I'm thinking--"It's your goddamn fashion sense gonna send you to jail this time," and almost immediately a NOPD cruiser enters stage left and disappears stage right where also the gangster went.
Another youngster, well dressed, and panting, with walkman headphones on his head comes through a short while later and runs along the other side of my house, a trespass of which I am less tolerant, but he looks so scared, caught in the headlights of bad judgement, that I can't help but feel some sympathy so I don't mention my displeasure but simply call out to him loudly (because of the headphones), "You're running the wrong way."
He keeps on going but a few seconds later comes back and tries to catch his breath standing out of site up against the back of the house. He relays to me the all too familiar lament that he is surrounded by his enemy. I tell him I was glad to give him directions but I won't protect him and he quickly interprets my meaning and runs back to his starting point.
Cruisers, grouped in two and threes, speed up and down Rocheblave, looking at me sitting in front of the long forgotten four-door a hundred feet away from them and are apparently unaware of my proximity to a rather prominent passageway.