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


silent wishes inside whispers, unopened presents frosting smiles, festive hats pointing to heaven, where eyes reflect the soul as a chorus of support welcomes all into the center where voices entertain with gifts in story


Warm desert winds coarse wildly through open car windows on a highway past abandoned gas stations and dirt roads leading to somewhere. The driver owns one sweat stained shirt absent of buttons and ripped jeans. He carries a history of miles.  Never reads road signs, just turns when he wants, passing towns he may have … More HEADING SOUTH


A wave of voices claims pastures of air lifting up songs of worship and praise encouraging the downcast while healing broken hearts.   The choir reaches into willing souls with keys shaped like notes turning locks and setting loose with words the breath of life.        


        The crowd, a mass of willing flesh, absorb the fire of his sound. Their greed is unsatisfied, unquenched, burning with the blood of dance; it warms cool air.   The man with great voice tastes his words, releasing thoughts from corners and shadows, spreading the jazz, bandaging the hurt in the … More FALLEN STARS


      Crawling gray clouds like dusty knees of workers slide over a wooden bridge where a girl sings over waters below.   Her voice occupies the transient air as she claims her place above quiet waters slipping downstream.            


Her lipstick is the blood red of a days end. Draining slender fingers claw for heaven, stirring muddy the floor under the pearly gates. The jazz she breathed rattled high around the edges of her cup of years; the roulette wheel fails to let her secure a winning. The wrong of her makes the pain … More HER SONG TOUCH


        Jazz holds me captive when her voice spills from strong sculptured depths…   flowing over the crowd with warm summer downpours of sounds soaking their souls richly…   Fulfilling wishful dreams of lonely men who count themselves lucky to gaze at her…   Eyes the shade of Egyptian blue oceans where … More WEAK SPIRITS


        Sandpaper songs chisel her image into rough edges. She is sharp to the fingers and smooth to the skin; dark pearls follow her steps..   She is an alligator wrapped in ribbons; gentle without meaning, harsh with intention.   Her sound is muddy thick. Dust storms jump from the caves of … More IRREGULAR