(Poem) New Orleans Is Clawing At My Bones

 

I used to dream of New Orleans

the birthplace of jazz

the humid, sinewy underarm of America

that place where the tide rolled in

corralling with it all the Devil's rejects

the flotsam of continents

each wave rolling over the previous

that place where the soft syllabary of the Natchez

learned sharpness in the wind

and still claws through the cold blasts from the Mississippi

still angry, still bitter as hell

dragging its nails through the delta

from its rusted chains in abandoned Haitian slave forts

I used to dream of New Orleans all the time

that place where Morton jellyrolled and Fats stacked dominoes

and Bonham beat down the buttresses till they busted open

that place where sea wall shadowmaps and Sazerac swizzle sticks

tell you what time it is, and when it's time to go home

or not

and leave you on the same barstool the following morning

paralytic, trying to remember

where you left your bike

and what ward you live in

and why the delta conspired to make the air so sticky

and the ghosts so damn persistent

Don't they know it's past closing time?

Yeah, that's the place I used to dream of

that is, of course, until the day it all got washed away

For ever, we all thought

No more Frenchmen Street

No more Preservation Hall

No more seductively mangled français

The Saints, we assumed, would not be coming back

not this time

in spite of the assurances of Irish rock stars and preprogrammed politicos

Is it not true that nothing is forever

even in this town?

But then the river receded

and the night watch came

not saints, just sinners with spray paint cans

mapping the city as they swarmed through the streets

tattooing the town

with the defiXiones

the X mark

haunted crosses everywhere that spoke with a thousand voices

We're watching you.

We may be dispersed but we're watching you.

We're not done here.

Tonight New Orleans is clawing at my bones

she's there in every neon-lit puddle

every misspelled word

every unapologetic wrong note in a pentatonic scale

she's there in every empty glass

at the end of the long night

and she's there in every X mark

no, nothing wrong, nothing incorrect

just a seething mass of humanity

wheezing like a Louisiana freighter

dragging us all back to life

even as we kick and scream for a safer, more logical abode

Yes, this is the place I used to dream of

the refuge of the reckless

the fortress of fools

where the city sees and the water saws

and Moldovan cabbies careen through Napoleonic alleyways

like they were somehow theirs to begin with

You're not done with me yet, are you?

Sousaphones playing Pink Floyd - you're not done with me yet

Scarlet corsets and scandalous bike rides - you're not done with me yet

Tearful tunes percussed by distant freight trains - you're definitely not done with me yet

Boys who fell asleep in the army only to wake up on a streetcorner with placards round their necks
selling jello shots and shitty advice - you're not done with me yet either, are you?

Nope, the city with too many exes and not enough whys

haunts my dreams now more than ever.

And I have no reason to think she'll stop

so I might as well get comfortable

Nouvelle Orléans, Bayou Sauvage

prends ce que tu veux de moi.

For unlike you

I truly am defenceless.