Magnolia Tree

I've been meaning to post this photo. As Post-Modern Jukebox plays "Young and Beautiful". 

A magical voice beckons.

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?

Our neighbor begins to play Ain't Misbehavin' on his ivory keys. The notes seep on over into our living room. Paul begins to walk over to me humming along with the notes.  He reaches down and kisses my hand. He guides me upward, to stand before him. A hand finds my waist and the music moves our bodies.  My feet, sore from the weeks of parades and dancing. My stomach full or rich decadent food.  Formed by the Trinity, blessed in butter. My body held by the man that I love.

Today is Fat Tuesday in New Orleans. We haven't fully slept in over a month. What keeps us upright?  Tourist cash.  Swipe your plastic and hand over your bills, pay our rent in three hours.

Paul has had gigs throughout the weekend.  I've had non-stop waitressing shifts since Thursday.  Tomorrow, after Mass, we sleep.

I wear my white slip, the one I bought in Paris.  A tear can be seen in my stockings.  Bright red lipstick.  A foolish night before us. To go along with all the previous foolish nights. I slide my sore feet into heels and twirl to New Orleans Jazz.  Our neighbor finishes, I politely clap.  He picks up his trumpet to play an Al Hirt song.  He plays and my slip begins to slowly slide off. 

"The moonlight on the bayou

a Creole tune that fills the air

I dream about magnolias in bloom

and I'm wishin' I was there".

The City That Care Forgot

When I die, you better second line. 

When I die, you better second line. 

You better strike up the band, ev’ry day of the week, Parade my soul up and down the street, 

When I die, you better second line. 

A man revs his bike, I close my eyes and pretend that it drowns out the voices of the dead. I can't escape the shadows. I can't sleep here in this city that I love. The smell of human secretion and desperation with hints of processed sugarcane. Jazz keeps me afloat. I bus tables and paint vivid colors on a matrix all for the tourists. I wear heels that I remove, point my toes and glide on stage. I move tassels into hypnotic circles. I've cursed and prayed here. Everything tastes better in this city.

As first I thought I died and came to live here in New Orleans. Sometimes I still wonder as I stand in line with the dead and living. Like a burlesque dancer, I'll remove my gloves first. I perform with a live band on a nameless street. I try not to make eye contact with anyone in the band as I turn my back on the audience. I do like it when I get them to play a note out of tune. I try not to stare at the visitors' bald spot in front of me. The spotlights blind me and aid in producing the sweat on my body.

Saturday after Mass, I sit alone. I hear jazz music play as it echos throughout the building walls. Bouncing off a plethora of material that house the living. When the 'bone holds a note the glass vibrates. I came here to finish writing my novel. I came here to be with my musician boyfriend. I came here to attend one hell of an A.A. meeting. You decide which reason to believe in.

My beau and I sit facing each other eating crawfish. Laughing and talking. It's a rare afternoon to be up at this time of day. Our second wind starts with the night owls and ends with the gutter rats pecking at leftover slices in pizza boxes. I traveled the country with this man. Going from gig to gig. Each city decided my profession, another character for my novel. In the daylight I will follow him anywhere but at night I tell him I want to settle down with or without him. He doesn't believe that I'll leave him. I don't believe it myself. I pray for a backbone.