Orleans Angst

Wailing waltz careens out of the closed portal a current depicting shades of proverbs that only the tense skin of spheres can witness.

Then the beat drops and the hardwood floor gets funky.

Eventually something sticks and the line pulls all the way through the cloud to approaching dusk.

It smells of rust. It smells of piss-soaked walkways and brick-lined corners, popped beer cans. sweat, cologne, jasmine, gardenia The dream is alive here. Have you seen her?

Nightshade on the windowsill. Mold in the mirror. There are wined eyes and heroin eyes eyes that penetrate and eyes that bubble up in remembrance of last night's beers. Some eyes flatten out as they melt into

the room. The these four walls is breathing somewhere, waiting, just like us for a straight shot to this approaching dusk

for to beg the dream to stay a spell, calmed that the these four walls might be a comfort to her that Reverie's respite might soothe us all.

The night wades through one-ways and heaps of lopsided boxes humming. Each heap swelling up to meet her passing dark with eyes in affection.

It smells of longing.

But we're not all children here. Some the dusk never reaches some the night takes, some the dream has forgotten. For some there is only the ground cracking under them. Some are becoming creatures of wet land. Some already are, and they swim the canal searching for spare change and 40bottles, too lost to drink on the city itself as it drowns.

That bit doesn't smell at all.