there’s a raising at the French quarter with crowds dancing and colliding like changing tide waters crossing streets drinking with passion while cable car singers and corner horn players beat a noise under a dreary humid mist as the sweating and smiling, celebrate for any reason without a holiday
the jazz the hip the swagger the sound high life sweat and gin piano sweet horns of life dogs barking neon’s sizzle suspenders and silk pony tails beards and sash fingers snap lipstick and lace cymbals and sticks midnight and the passage to the other side
the dogs of night get a new growl when backdoor clubs fill with evening voices dancers sway rhythmically within clouds of smoke lipstick numbers appear on napkins when approving eyes catch a glance yesterdays salted wounds disappear as morning stretches over empty streets
Dogs barking, children in an abandoned lot. Their game interrupted by a dispute. Small towns hold its players close, leaving little room to maneuver away from the center. Girls look at magazines, shopping for images. Young men sweat with strength, struggling with self as they search beyond the package of where they are. An old … More WHICH WAY
There was a final call for last drinks at the Black Cactus Cantina, a place comfortable in the shadows. It was another night of switchblades, leather boots and lies with smiles. Warm desert winds and roaming lizards stir night sands. Women with showy names and men without truth move through the door to outside. … More LAST CALL
Roger Singer 