Blue Moon for the Crescent City
You can’t hide all night. Like the skinny rat who slinks into clubs on Frenchmen Street, eventually, you will draw attention to your hide and seek glow in the dark of a city without power soul shell.
Excuse me. Neal Cassady wants his beat back. A stack of flapjack Kerouac drifts into a silent harbor. This moon, your blue moon, is less rare than the storm that troubled this city, cradled by that silty river with all those repeating consonants.
Miss. Do you know what it means to Miss. New Orleans. Miss. Ms.
There are no women beat poets that we remember. Every system, every regime, fails. Ginsberg sang of Diane di Prima. One in a million who know Jack have ever heard a whisper of di Prima.
That candle that burns, there, fights to stay lit against winds from the old quarter, this candle Diane, la luna, the not-so-rare blue moon, a song, a rhapsodic nostalgic heart-tipped spear tossed blindly into this near-dark New Orleans night, stabs a live oak in the neutral ground between then and never.