still
burning
sky over
Gentilly
it is
easily overlooked
strange
island
the
slightest interest
sags like
rotten lace
behind
high walls
a week
before Mardi Gras
warm wind
and
bearing it
the street
looks tremendous
devotion
commencing
to make a fire
the very
sound of winter mornings
streaming
with tears
the
mantelpiece
an
evening gown
against
the darkening sky
so
pleasant and easy
old world
gone to Natchez
a
houseboat on Vermillion
more extraordinary
the sky
into her
upturned face
her eyes
a
soundless word
ample and
mysterious
a litter
of summers past
(2)
a fresh
wind
transfigures
everyone
stray
bits and piecesnot distinguishable
a
peculiar thing
August
sunlightstreaming
in yellow bars
the
mystery
of those
summer afternoonsthe islands in the south
going under
such a
comfort
a corner
of the wallenclosed
shallow and irregular
the
happiest moment
the
oddness of itlike a seashell
her
fingers on the zinc bar
cold and
brineylike a boy who has come into a place
already moved
(3)
inside
the wet leaves
the smell
of coffee the Tchoupitoulas docks
Negro men
carry children
measuringthe flambeaux bearers
showering
sparks
“Ah now!”maskers
like
crusaders
leaning
forward
whole
bunches of necklaces
that sail
toward us
on horsebackloose in the city
the
entire neighborhood
possiblesomewhere
(4)
simulacrum
of a dream
like a
sore toothcommoner than sparrows
celebrating
the rites of spring
yellow-cotton
smellthumb-smudge over Chef Menteur
sculling
the
bright upper airthe world is all sky
a broken
vee
suddenly
whitethe tilting salient of sunlight
diesel
rigs
glowing
like rubiesnothing better
evenings
over
Elysian Fieldswho really wants to listen
in the
thick singing darkness
cottonseedin a streetcar
an
accidental repetition
her
woman’s despaira little carcass
a kiss on
the mouth
not eventhe earth has memories of winter
(5)
the
sidewalks, anyhow
virginal, asperfect lawns
fog from the lake
seeing the
footprint on the beach
a queer thingtunneled by
new green shoots
black earth
the very
wordsfull of pretty
snapshots
connive with
me
down the
leveea drift of honeysuckle
oil cans
forget about
women
the sunshinealong her thigh
the tiny fossa
saved me
facet and
swelltilting her head
far away as Eufala
Writing
Nomad,
belonging accidentally and always at some remove to the places I find myself
inhabiting, how root into these places, shift from being outside or between? Neither here nor there. After
living eleven years in south Louisiana, drawn to the richness of its cultures,
landscape, and history, painfully aware of the human brutality and
environmental crises comprised therein, the sustained, willful political
short-sightedness, I sought a language of place that could complicate as well
as deploy the contradictory experiences of attachment and alienation without
falling into the tropes of “awe/wonder”—othering the world of which we are
inevitably, inextricably a part—and angry didacticism. I turned to extant
texts: Florula Ludoviciana, an 1807
flora of the state first published in Paris by C. C. Robin and then in English
with emendations by Constantine Rafinesque,EPA reports, reportage from the
aftermath of Hurricane Katrina (2005) and the BP Oil Macondo blowout (2010),
oral histories, and novels written and set in south Louisiana, among many
sources. Of the latter, I drew upon Walker Percy’s The Moviegoer, perhaps the quintessential novel of New
Orleans , or at least
white New Orleans
of a particular moment, and Kate Chopin’s The
Awakening, from which these pieces are derived. Attending to passages in which particulars of place were most
evident, I isolated these as source-material. Cutting and juxtaposing short
phrases (each line-break is an intact cut from the original) to create texts
that afforded a means of writing about place, healing to a degree the otherness
of my outsider status and perhaps in other ways, highlighting it, while also
foregrounding language. These cut-ups move sequentially forward in the source
texts and juxtapose an urban experience with a rural one. The cutting technique gave permission to
write about south Louisiana ,
affording a way in to this place, which is simultaneously mine and not mine at
all.
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