Literature
New Orleans
So maybe there are too many flowers here
on the ground, and in the cotton;
weaving like lace through red dirt flesh.
Sun threatens necks and marinates eyes;
as balsa-spun bones tell laconic tales of age,
creaking and groaning like old southern mansions.
Mint juleps and almonds and peaches doze here,
and Eve has her fingers stuck down Eden's throat,
splashing sin and decadent fruits all over the city.
Our voices are slow and warping in the heat,
rising like egg steam off the sidewalks.
Honeysuckle flowers bloom with tarot cards
and suffocate the air with a drowsy nectar.
Stars are made to be read
nights are made to be wakened-
o