Marie Leveau~The Queen of New Orleans

Scrawled on her tombstone~

her eyes

lit up with fire

for the dreams

she entertained...

seems something in her

knew already

just how well

they'd burn

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

burn they did, yet burn they do

this Creole Goddess

free born

to the clever Marguerite

and the planter at her feet

who with his lust

purchased her chains, his

now to wear and to rust

and the French Quarter girl

named Marie

dug at roots from an ancient tree

til the spirits in the night

acquiesced to her light

granting her every plea

galleg and gris-gris

they trembled yet flocked

to see the spirits

and the secrets unlocked

in dragon's blood ink

her veve was adorned

her magic was real

and not to be scorned

to the dance, they cried, "heal"

the condemned, they cried, "save"

the priests, they grew fearful

the desperate grew brave

her snake she called Zombi

which apparently pleased

and the fright it incurred

was merely a tease

the unchallenged Queen

of the Congo Square scene

has long since passed on

her magic long gone

her legend like that of a dream

but on nights

just so certain

when the moon

meets the wind

the waves of Pontchartrain

rise up once again

she still walks St. Ann

with a dress made

of white

her tignon furled seven

til nearly daylight

then the crow takes its rest

on the tomb cold and still

watching them wish

because

maybe, she will

May Shel Silverstein forever be cursed for writing his horrid song "Marie Leveau"

as if A Boy Named Sue hadn't been bad enough.

Marie was not ugly but quite beautiful, and though she had her faults as do we all, she was and remains, The Queen.

Listening In The Still

it's not how long we live

nor even the how or why, as

these things become obstacles

to the simple act of flying

i can't be her nor him

or another me

any more than today

can be yesterday or tomorrow

when you walk through the woods

can you read between the pines?

lie down on unclaimed earth,

trace the fallen maple leaf on your heart

and let it go?

can you dip a single finger

in the smallest of forgotten streams

and listen to it's thoughts?

perhaps

we are too noisy, too wanting

too full of cluttered thoughts

that are the tax on emotions

we can never square

based on results

the passing geese

let the changing seasons

tell them when to fly

and where just happens

while the braided trees

forest deep and silent

are content to be no more

not wishing to be clouds

so take the grocery list

from next week's dinner party

and with those old love letters

put all on the last log burning

boulders to ash

and just be a breath

listening to the North-wind's call

telling us our plans are a truce

already breached

and our regrets

a contract with ghosts

Til Death Do Us Part

                                                (my kind of woman)

Guns or knives, Butch?

I don't wanna shoot with you, Harvey!

ok, knives it is

(Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid)

I know the rules say

one in the chamber, but

that could take all day!

so let's do three

and I'll go first

cuz I love you so much

she shaved her legs last night

and this morning,

I rivered my wrist with her

dirty blade as she seductively

licked her lips

I didn't mean to boric acid

her Cheerios-

it just looked like sugar

and she recovered

and after she put that bomb

in my car last week,

she took the car at two am for milk

just to prove she loved me

-but I had already defused it

who knew ebay even sells

poison lipstick

or that I could buy the anecdote

on Amazon, but of course

neither worked

and when I bought all those sleeping pills

to forever silence her rage

I took them myself

but then she hit me with the hammer

and woke me up

and we're both fine, now,

cuz we're in love

kiss me my darling,

hold me my dear,

but with one eye open

one hand on the trigger

and 911 on speed dial

yes, my sweet

let's love each other

to death

The Music Plays

sometimes,
i'm this

 but just now, i'm this




Manhattan is a big cage with invisible bars

where diversity reigns among ruins

of many a small world, in a cosmos,

chaotic

the scarfed and shaded actress walking her dog

hides in Central Park among the beggars

and thieves

while the number crunchers on Wall Street

deal from the bottom, unaware

of Harlem homeys, pissing up their turf

just to the North

and when the sun goes down, Broadway

comes alive with limousines and caviar

while the heroin addled hookers

come out to gambol

just a few streets south

The UN does their dirty deals

not far from where the Federal Reserve

counts our imaginary money

and then there's me

down on South Street

where the water leads away

trying to make sense of it all

life is music, I think,

for some, a five string banjo

all knee slappin, 'backer spittin

for others, Brahms, Mantovani

or a trip down Moon River

where violence, is a spilled drink

rap, rock, country or pop,

it can define, conceal, or muscle

who we are

I've used Kanye, haggard,

and even Schubert

to bluff my hole card

when the game got hot

but the truth is,

I'm just an easy saxophone

to a composition unwritten

high, then low

mournful and drawn out

just a man on a rock by the water

feeling beyond the boundaries

trying to make sense of it all

as the music bleeds

RAMBO XVII (Doggin The Poet)

I wasn't looking for trouble at Carol's Diner

just a place to shake the chill.

But trouble came to breakfast.

He had the smug look of a constipated Brian Dennehy

with a fat MGM contract signed and sealed.

Me? I was the pouty Rambo, lost in a world not my own,

just makin my way from one shit-hole to another,

tryin to hide my battle scars.

I hadn't showered or shaved in four days

and I needed coffee. Destiny, I suppose.

Carol's, Marla, me, and him.

The perfect alignment.

The little bell on the door rang as I entered

and everyone looked my way.

Everyone that is, except Marla, in her drab

olive green skirt, who had long ago

learned not to hear the bell.

And him,

His thick eyes fastened firmly onto Marla's grease stained ass

as she made her way with the tray.

I knew immediately

this was no love affair.

This was rape and disdain.

But I also knew to mind my own business

so I hunkered down deep in a corner booth

The sign at the edge of town had said,

NO WEAPONS

so I kept my pen sheathed,

my notebook tucked in my rucksack

But he knew. I could tell he knew.

And that I knew he knew

Marla knew too.

I heard his fat boots scuffling, but didn't look up

"Just passin through?"

I didn't answer

but I could see his buttermilk smirk

reflecting off the spoon

"I asked you a question, Drifter. You deaf?"

I put the spoon in the coffee and stirred slowly

Marla was popping her gum

as she came to my rescue.

"Leave him alone, Sheriff. He ain't doin nothin wrong."

Sheriff Dickhead turned slowly to Marla,

looked her up and down with that shirky grin of his,

like she was the morning special undercooked

"I'll decide that. Don't you have a floor to mop?"

I heard her mutter, "asshole" and watched her tiny heels disappear.

Marla meant well, but you know how that goes.

I couldn't help myself. I pulled out my Bic

and clicked it slowly.

Carol's went quiet.

"I guess you didn't see the sign, Longfellow.

We don't like your kind around here.

Finish your coffee and move on.

Hear me, boy?"

I holstered my pen, wrapped both hands round the cup

and looked through the window

at the light snow falling.

"I hear ya just fine."

Marla was smiling and I knew that was rare.

Sheriff Dick walked toward the door and tossed a dime

next to his empty plate. As the door closed,

Marla called after him, "Must be payday."

everyone laughed.

Marla apologized and offered me free breakfast

but that wasn't my way.

I left three dollars for the coffee

and threw three more by Dickhead's plate

before tippin my hat and ringing the bell.

That should have been the end of it

I should've left, I know

But instead, I crossed the street

found a bench by the park

and pulled out my notebook and pen

blew on my hands

-and began to write

while watching Marla through the window.

It didn't take long before the puke brown Olds pulled up.

"I thought I told you to keep moving."

I glanced up without a twitch, at his fat arms

resting on the window frame

"I'll be gone in an hour." I muttered.

"By God, you'll be gone now,

or you'll be writing in my jail cell."

I looked at Carol's

Marla was at the window looking worried.

What was the point? It would only make things

harder for her. And besides, the moment was gone.

He followed me out of town at a snails pace

noticing in his rear view mirror

Marla waving to me from the sidewalk.

I smiled.

That should've been the end of it, but it wasn't.

Marla had seen to that

She had framed the poem I had penned then slipped her

without him noticing,

and posted it just above his table.

After that, he was everywhere I went.

omnipresent.

ubiquitous as broken sorrels

at a Wisconsin yard sale.

Yellow polyester

in an Arkansas Wal Mart.

He dogged me to Seattle

a winery in Lodi

a shanty in New Mexico

the bordello in New Orleans

and a tiki bar in Tampa.

everywhere I went, there he was

like a pimple on my ass

just waiting for me to plagiarize,

mock the union, curse God, mis-spell,

Anything

The last straw was when I jumped off a boxcar in Baltimore.

and there in the freight yard, he stood, arms crossed,

chewin that wad of gum and smiling all Dennehy.

I couldn't take it anymore. I stowed away to Tanzania

changed my name, learned swahili,

found work in a cocoa field

and wrote at night neath the dim oil lamp.

Then one day a safari came roaring through

and there he was.

sitting on the jeep's hood with his elephant gun

loaded for bard

Some friends sidetracked him by telling him

there was some endangered shit just three klicks away

and I made my escape to Tibet

Sure, the life of a Sherpa is lonely

but the views are great and Sheriff Dick

had eaten way too many of Carol's biscuits

to ever climb a Mountain.

And I ask you, how could I know he had flying monkeys?

But summon them he did.

I had just written a story in my tent, stepped out for a pee,

and there they were, descending on me

in the smoky moonlight

fortunately, the yeti are thick up there

nocturnal and love flying monkeys

So I lived another day

But that didn't stop him. He summoned his mistress,

The Snow Witch of The Yukon

(whose tits really were cold)

I should have known it was her right away

when she signed up to climb

for she was dull as moon glow

and had that pageant smile.

-The mark of The Beast.

Just below the summit, she turned to me

pulled some paper out of her parka

and said, "Here, read this,"

The altitude had made me careless

I only glanced, but damn near went blind

from the dull poison there before me.

I quickly pointed to the sky

"Hey, Look! Flying monkeys!"

When she did, I pushed her into a deep crevasse

and shoveled as fast as possible

But it's no use, he'll never give up

so I'm laying down my pen, burning my notebook,

and moving to Syria to become a freedom fighter

if he follows me there

I'm blowin his fat ass away.

If MGM sues me

so be it.

I owe it to Marla

Lovin On Baker Street

the ceiling fan was limping round and round,

creak and clack, not close to whirl

like a crippled dog tied to a stake

no longer caring what it's tail was doing

"Mmm.....that was wonderful, Lover."

on my back, hands locked behind my head,

I ignored her, but wondered,

did she call me lover cuz I was?

or because it was easier than keeping names?

from across the street, Wally's tavern

was flashing red neon code through the window,

painting pretty pictures on the wall

as a lone moth scrambled to decipher

like a wave from an Indonesian earthquake

I felt her stir, subtle, but rolling in my direction

and her cheap perfume slithered

across my face

"you asleep?" she purred

which is the only question you can actually

give a lie to with silence

"no."

one syllable, two letters

but my mind was writing an epic

how could anyone sleep with that damn worthless clock

playing bass to the crippled fan until the whole thing

became a freight train that never ends

while Wally frantically signals

that a wreck is imminent?

i wished i had lied

I wanted to smell my fingers to see if she was still there

but my head was using them and when I told my thigh

to keep it's distance, I found it too uncaring

to escape

sirens and lights screamed passed the window

in search of a felony and the moth flew over

to investigate

there was just enough streetlight

to make out her red panties slung

over the straight back chair left over from the 70's

and suddenly, I knew why bulls hated red

and took the dagger

i looked down at the lazy wave

making it's way to Hawaii and spoke

cuz i guessed it was my turn

"What day is it tomorrow? Tuesday, right? Don't you have to work? Yes, you do. You should get some sleep."

I answered my own questions like chocolate on ice cream

so it wouldn't lead to more

it worked, she grunted but said nothing

a half hour later, the seas were calm

as I insanely wrote songs

to the clock and fan marching band

while the sirens and lights returned

still searching for the wreck

i was hiding in cacophonous quiet

Wally turned off the paint machine

and the moth looked lonely, sad,

and trapped against the filthy window

as I finally smelled my fingers

to find she was gone

we both had suffered long enough

so I opened the window and out he flew

then the door for me

for I was too tired to fly, and too selfish to fall

she won't miss me in the morning

or hold it against me next week

for this is the way

of lovers and moths

down on Baker Street

My Trip To Somalia

When I got the letter from my cousin, Abu Abdiallah, I was overjoyed.

Cousin Dude, the letter said, the opportunity of a lifetime, it continued.

Free grog and good times! the letter proclaimed. Just as seen on TV!

But act now, it's a limited time offer that won't last.

How could I refuse?

The Motherland and my pirate ways

were calling me back to Somalia

-and besides, the factory was talking lay-offs

So I grabbed the first schooner pointing East

which happened to be the Vanderbilts, who happened to need a deckhand.

-hee hee, silly rich people

I was a little rusty, so for practice, I raped the old bag and keel hulled her dick of a husband

before setting them adrift South of Bermuda.

I was amazed how it all came back to me, like riding a bike,

or rolling a joint.

Finding Somalia wasn't hard but cousin Abu's friends weren't too keen on a pirate named Rick

wearing wranglers and reeboks and sailing a pink boat called The Carnation. So i grew a beard and changed my name to Hassan.

In no time at all, the pirate Union #487 approved me as they were short handed and gave me sandals for my reeboks which sucked in salt water anyway.

Glory to Allah! That first year was great!

I traded up from my Sears hunting knife to a real cutlass, and then later for an AK-47 with a feather trigger.

But they took away my bullets when I accidentally shot off the ear of Abu's sister during a drunken beach orgy-but hey! It still looked cool slung over my shoulder and got me lots of babes.

The first few months they kept me on the B-team, kinda like junior varsity, but it was cool as we snagged a lot of yachts and got home most nights to write ransom notes, smoke hookah, get blitzed on khat, and fuck poor girls. I could offer a girl 5000 shillings (about 3 bucks American) and she'd fuck like a monkey all night long. It sure beat the factory.

But about the time I made the big leagues in the Gulf of Aden, the boys were getting over ambitious.

It's one thing to grab a Liberian garbage scow, it's another to take an Iranian weapons smuggling ship.

To say the least, things got hairy, the guns bigger, and the chasers more determined.

One day, as Captain Saleh was looking through the binoculars and salivating heavy, I turned to Abu.

"Um, he DOES know that's a Russian oil tanker, doesn't he?"

Abu tried to hush me, but it was too late. The Captain turned and sneered.

"Is the American GI Joe afraid of Russia?"

I was thinking, well, fuck yeah! But they had all turned to look at me now so I had to save myself quick.

"Praise be to Allah! Allah is great!"

It took a second or two but finally a big cheer went up. I had long since found that such a proclamation could get you out of a lot of hot water. It was like saying, "Hi, I'm Bob and I'm an alcoholic."

Once you knew the code, you were in.

But the Captain was shrewd. He raised a wary eyebrow and scratched his beard, so I shouted something in Somali. Everyone looked puzzled but they turned back to the prize on the horizon.

Abu whispered to me, "Why did you declare jihad on their prickly underpants."

I just shrugged.

It turned out I was right. Half of us got away, the other half never will, and the ship shot us to pieces.

Captain Saleh blamed me, of course, and let everyone know.

"It is the American Swine! he has cursed us with his fear and unbelief!"

I wanted to say, "Er, no, Dickweed. You took a knife to a tank battle." But instead I said, "Praise be to Allah!"

No one cheered, and then some wise ass said, "Are we even sure he's Abu's cousin? He could be a spy. Has anyone seen his birth certificate?"

Oh great, I thought. Birthers! Just what I need in the middle of nowhere with an empty AK-47 and my Wrangler patch showing.

They didn't kill me, but they took away my card and gun and I was banished from their reindeer games.

It was just as well as we had pissed off a lot of people by now and the jig was up anyway.

I had to sell my beach villa and Vette (as if there's a Texaco in Hobyo anyway) and now I'm sleeping in a tent by the harbour trying to hitch a ride back to Detroit.

And none of the locals will talk to me, not even Abu or his one-eared sister.

Pleasure cruisers are very rare through here, and they never leave again anyway, and Saleh took The Carnation in place of my life which I found prudent to agree to.

I figure there's a pretty hefty warrant out for my arrest back in the states if the Vanderbilts ever made it there, so I guess I'll brush up on my Spanish, change my name to Pedro, and catch an opium trader bound for Mexico. With any luck, I'll be in Acapulco by spring, and running a cartel by fall.

"God bless the Pope!"

November Huntress

as gazelle, first year and free

bounding the wild Serengeti

I flitted the forest flora as lover

in search of a first

real heartache

she the huntress, I the prey

the indigo and emerald butterflies

rose passion to the pearl sky,

chasers to the zenith moon

as Corelli, she played

the strings of her bow

mistress to the morning

peach on early horizon

the arrow it flew, her shot so true

struck, I fell

to the receiving earth

my heart pierced through

"Why? my lover, Why?"

I cried, as life beseech-ed me,

hold on, tender innocent!

to me she raced,

her husband as well

through thorn, thistle and brier

while sparrows sang my dirge

"Grieve not," the plump orange

spoke to the sobbing

toothless pumpkin

knelt at my side

"He should've known better

than to light beneath your tree"

in my final dying gasp,

limbs twitching

on autumn's kaleidoscope

leaves, clutched now

so dearly, I implored

with my final breath

"You fucking idiots!

How was I supposed to know

it was the opener of deer season?"

Chester Plays

Crazy Chester

always wanted to be in the Boston Pops

even after he found out it wasn't a barbershop quartet

trouble is, he didn't have a musical bone in his body,

wouldn't know Tchaikovsky from Jerry lee

and his ability rested somewhere

between Alfalfa and Barney Fife

fortunately, though, he had an uncle

who knew a guy who owed a guy

who knew some guy in Alabama

so off to the audition he went

taking his off-tune banjo along

making Chester check his banjo at the door,

they led him to a room full of a guy

full of chin rubbing and screwed shut eyes

who said he knew Chester's talent at a glance

Chester looked down at the two sticks

covered in pool table felt

duct taped on the ends

and to say the least,

was a little disappointed

the republican looking guy

leaned back in his fat leather chair,

gave Chester an upside down

backhanded wave, and said,

"Go ahead, Boy, Play."

well, Chet slapped them two sticks together silently

as the goatee'd guru looked up to the ceiling,

hummed, and waved his arms before jumping up

and exclaiming, "Wonderful, Boy!

Simply magnificent."

it wasn't exactly what Chester had hoped for

and the Tuscaloosa Tiderollers

wasn't exactly the New York Philharmonic

but hey! ya gotta start somewhere, right?

on concert night, Chet inquired as to

where his seat was, and was led

to a metal folding chair, just behind the curtain

"But I can't even see the conductor from here?"

the clip board lady with loud heels and lips

pursed tight as her hair, replied,

"As good as you are, you don't need the conductor.

Just bang them sticks together every now and then."

the janitors watched from their broom crutches,

laughed at first, then debated

if they should tell poor Chester

it was all a joke and he

the donkey with a tail pinned

on his nose

but no one said anything

and the music played on

while Chester sat playing the mute sticks

in the shadows,

just down the nose of the symphony

~rick

The Lover's Kiss Never Kissed

my life was crazy then

as a young man's should be.

I'd cashed in my three cherries

packed up my old car

and aimed for Texas

but lacking spurs and a stetson

Texas just seemed big and lonely

so I turned my pony towards Florida

just because it wasn't Texas

out of gas in Tampa

and ninety-cents short of a dollar,

I looked up an old friend

with a couch

and took a job at ABC liquor

one day, as i

stocked scotch for

retired magicians

and mad dog 20-20

for those that never

learned the trick,

the beer man came in

"man," he said shaking his head,

as he paused and leaned upon

the wheeler of beer,

"you oughta see this chick

over at The Duke!"

"Oh, yeah?" I kept shootin

the price sticker gun,

but listened

his words grew Popeye

to the telling

"I ain't shittin ya, Dude,

prettiest thing I've ever seen."

then he tipped the wheeler back

and headed for the cooler

now, I have a lot of respect for beer men,

so after work, I stopped off at The Duke

for a cold one, just to see

and there she was.

the beer guy hadn't lied, and in fact,

hadn't done her justice

if there was ever such a thing

as pure perfect physical beauty

it was right here, in brunette

and blue jeans, and in her smile

as she brought my beer

the bar was quiet, so we talked

then i went back the next day

and talked some more

then the next, and so on...

her name was Pam

we went out

clubs, dancing, dinner, a movie,

I met her friends, and she mine

and I bought her things

with money I didn't have

just cuz I wanted to be a part

of her beauty

once

I bought her a pair of black pants

which is still the best thirty bucks

I ever layed upon the altar

but never did I kiss her a lover's kiss

though desperately, I wanted to

oh, we held hands, she sat on my lap,

there were hugs and gentle kisses,

just never the lover's kiss

because I was afraid-

afraid her lips were too pretty for mine

that her perfect breasts and

moist treasure

could never really be given to me, and

afraid she was saving those things

for someone better, whom

she hadn't yet met.

and even though she gave me no reason to doubt

and in fact, I think encouraged,

i was afraid to bet what I'd already won and lose it

on what seemed to me, as the greatest of long shots

I've always been insecure,

always thought myself not enough,

but even more so then

and especially, with her

so when spring came along

and a day for leaving

I went to see her at The Duke

to say goodbye, and I guess hope

she wouldn't let me

there, in the bar, in the kitchen,

she hugged me, then held me tight,

told me how she'd miss me

and kissed me softly

and when she drew back,

I watched her wipe

real tears that were falling

I should have been Cary Grant right then

forced her lips with my tongue,

carried her off to Kilimanjaro

or at least,

tell her that I'd never leave

-and i almost did

but then i looked down at the cutting board behind her

and noticed the onions she had been chopping

so instead, I forced a smiled,

turned, and walked away

I never saw her again

and we never wrote

that was thirty-two years ago

and I still don't know