Didn’t die for my country:
Would it help if I were more Hispanic?
Seems we’re all supposed to hate trumps;
Should I need to be more trytophannic?
Mad at me, mad at you—
Not the least bit “Chosen”.
Forget you, it’s not about me:
How long has your heart been frozen?
Find a way inside.
Do you still sleep alone?
Is there room by your side?
So many “fat-is-cool” shows,
And the stars’ car’s windows are all blacked out.
Define for me small-n Normal.
All cogent sides seem to have little doubt.
And a lady goes to Mexico;
Fishheads mingle in the sweet surreal.
Wanna live next to some boiled crawfish:
Why sucha big freaking’ deal?
You can have me with a dance at the Columns
Or a double oyster dressed from Domilise’s.
Let’s zydeco across lawn at Cyprimont Point.
You’re so pretty, so say all your nieces!
I want to go back to the streetcars,
the beads in the trees,
the shady uncle cousin someone
round the corner who has JUST what I need,
just a little after midnight; then
I need that walk the length of Esplanade Blvd
during Jazz Fest to approach that steamy Southern Mecca of Sound
where a southern soul can find release and respite and relish the latest fishy dish;
the only crawfish here is the department of no transportation
as I sit and sit and sit and inch by millimeter creep on home,
at TWO in the afternoon…[the schools aren’t out yet!]!
and all the girls are sworn sisters from the order of pure remorse,
Texas friendly…you got the dough, they’ll be your friend,
but all my grapes are sour and its Friday, the stereo is on twelve—
the cd is on capricorn records and a lil band from Georgia…Ah-MAN!
so let’s raise that glass of merlot from St Francis, sonoma valley—
brother gots a pig valve, and aunty is winning at bourre, de cours.
Go to the gospel tent! Where’s that streetcar…