Art Deco

I’ve seen ten thousand lightbulbs at the chicago worlds fair

I’ve traveled on a dirigible a hundred feet in the air

Heard voices from across the world on an AM radio

Modern marvels now a-days where’d the humanity go?

The Humanity

The Boy Who Wasnt There

You see some crazy stuff in New Orleans. A while back my wife and I were walking near the river and we saw a bed floating in the middle of it. And not some dinky air mattress eaither but a full king sized four posted canopy bed.

As we were looking at it it floated right up to us and stopped directly in front of where we were standing as if to say “get in losers! We’re going floating”

So we did the only thing two sane people would do in that situation. We climbed in, pulled the blankets up to our chins and pushed off the shore. We floated down into the Gulf of Mexico and as we were going I started singing.

By the time we hit Belle Chase
All of our lacy pillow cases
All got soaking wet.

Down the river in our floating bed
Was doubling as a boat
Cause we were broke, and yet

The luxurious old moon
It left us rich as a tycoon
Despite the hurricane.

We got attacked by a typhoon
But we just tacked to the monsoon
With nothing to our name.

On a giant king sized mattress
We had passed the steam boat Natchez
When we heard the song

Of the calliope. That steam boat
It was screaming warbly C notes
While we floated on.

And in our PJs and our flannel
Sailing by the Irish channel
You were telling me,

Just lying soft atop the box spring
We were pushing off the docks
Singing our melody.

And we were in the Mississippi
When you said goodnight and kissed me
And sang Babe You’re Gonna Miss Me When You Go,

And as we passed the sugar factory
With your kisses you attacked me
And you asked me if I knew Fat’s Domino.

So I sang Walking to New Orleans,
Sprinkled sugar on your orange,
Pouring saccharine factory snacks onto your citrus.

We had the squeaky bedsprings singing
Like a symphony of bedsprings,
Clinging to my Mississippi mistress.

And you said “hey give me a cuddle”
All because you knew a flood’ll
Wash us both away.

And you said “hey come here and spoon me”
All because you knew that soon we’d
See Grand Island Bay.

On a bed of tattered pillows
We went underneath the willows
And the birches.

On our fluffy temperpedic 
We heard preachers shouting edicts
From the churches.

Twisted up inside our sheets
We floated by Decatur street,
And if we ever sank

We’d just crash a fancy banquet
Dancing in our comfy blankets
On the riverbank.

But the water it was churning
When we hit the English turn
And thought we’d turned around.

So I took a sleeping pill
When I could see the oil drills
From down in Pilot Town,

And as we rounded Algiers Point
We lay in bed and lit a joint.
I was anointed by your body and the river,

And as my eyes were getting heavy 
We went by the final levy.
In the bevy of the bed I felt you quiver.

Then I fell asleep and dreamed of you 
As we went through Bohemia, oo
The steamy river view through Crescent Park.

And you were dreaming about Paris
By the time we left the Parrish.
We were cherishing each other in the dark.

Then we woke up and shook the coins off of our eyes only to find a tall hooded figure piloting the boat. He reached a long skeletal finger ahead an we realized we were dead. We jumped off and tried to swim to shore but as the boat paddled away into the mist, we realized we were miles from land. 

You came and clung to me while I treaded water. And just as I was about to give up and sink, my feet hit something. It was the riverbed. Firm and muddy and supportive and it had been there the whole time just 4 feet underneath the waves.

That was when I realized that no matter how fast the water was going, all we ever had to do was just stand up.

Riverbed

Time is a serial monogamist. Every month he’s with someone new. He left April for May, only to run off with June. 

At least he’s a good gift giver though. He gave Halloween to October. He gave Valentine’s Day to January. He even gave New Years to January the first day they met. Everyone he dated got a holiday before he invariably met someone new.

In the dog days of summer August wondered when he was going to get a gift. I mean it had been almost a month and still no holiday. He was getting a little worried and when he brought it up, Time was pre-occupied and caught off guard. He thought up an excuse real quick about why he haven’t given August a gift yet “when I’m with you babe” he stammered “every day’s a holiday” 

But the next day he ran off with a Virgo named September, and that’s why there’s no holidays in August.

August came to
Woke up and remembered
September was due

All this he knew
The summer was done for
The sunflowers had bloomed

So he stood up strait
Brushed the grass away
Put a jacket on
He’d come back some day
He knew he couldn’t stay
Not with the summer almost over

Goodbye too soon
To all the cicadas
The songs of the loon

July and June
Are well on their way now
And he should be too

But when I looked him in his alabaster eyes
He took my hand
And when the leaves began to turn and start to die
Took me to dance
And when the autumn breezes started blowing in
Gave me a kiss
And when September hurricanes began to spin
I told him this

I said:
August you fool
The days have got shorter
The air has got cool

August the moon’s
Been waning for days now
The season is through

But for you I’ll wait
We can celebrate
Every single day
And that’s why they say
That to this very day
There ain’t no holidays in August

No Holidays In August

Morticia

It’s well after midnight and all the French Quarter bars have closed. Somewhere in the night’s revelry you’ve lost your phone and become separated from your friends. A dense fog veils the old buildings. You see diffused lights, locked doors, ornate ironworks. For a split second you think you can make out a beautiful stranger smoking a cigarette on a balcony but when you look again you realize it was just a trick of the fog.

You’re following a trail of Peacock Feathers.  You hear muffled voices echoing off the old brick buildings. It’s a party and maybe someone inside can point you in the direction of your hotel or call you a taxi. You hear soft music, a wailing clarinet. Muffled laughter. Caffeinated conversation in transatlantic accents. But there are no cars on the streets. Did you hear a horse drawn carriage go by? All the lights are lit by gas.

It is a costume ball, a masquerade. It is a a guilted age soirée. You can’t see the people’s faces but only the masks, tuxedos and Sequin dresses. Women smoke inside from pointy cigarette holders. They wear ancient vanilla perfume, drink absynth from cocktail glasses. Peacock feathers cover the floor. “You were looking for us!” Says a beautiful stranger “Congratulations! You found the sound of the town as it is in your imagination”

The crowd applauds warmly as the band takes the stage and the music starts. The clarinet wails softly, the piano jangles over the steady bounce of the guitar. Brushes pulse on the old oak drum kit. You can’t see their faces through the masks but you could swear it was Stepcat or Caravan Palace. Maybe The Dresden Dolls or Tin Hat. A cartoon walrus approaches the mic and sings a Tom Waits song in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Cab Calloway. Hi-dee hi-dee hi-dee high he sings and the crowd sings it back “Ho-dee ho-dee ho-dee ho” It’s traditional jazz but it’s the least traditional Trad jazz you’ve ever heard. It’s swing music but it doesn’t swing like Benny Goodman. It swings like a boxer, it swings like a married couple.

You notice your hips are moving. You notice your head is bobbing. A beautiful stranger takes your hand and soon you are dancing in oversaturated technicolor. You steal away together and share a drink. Then share a kiss. “Stay with us” the stranger asks. “The party is only just now beginning” you can’t see the stranger’s face but you swear you know that honey coated voice. Those odd turns of phrase. When you dance together there’s a familiarity between you. Your feet know the steps like you’ve danced together long ago. Of course you’ll stay. You’ll stay forever. You just need to text your friends and let them know you’re ok. The stranger grabs your hand as you duck out, slips something in your pocket.

It’s bright out now. The fog has lifted and the cars and delivery trucks rumble past. You reach into you pocket only to remember your phone is gone. You turn around and try to get back into the speakeasy but the door is stuck shut. You knock but get no response. You press your ear too it and you hear nothing but the hum of an air conditioner. You peek through the keyhole and see an empty room inside. The glitter is dust, the bandstand covered in cobwebs. The instruments locked away. The lights are off. The dance floor has caved in. There hasn’t been a party here for years. Maybe generations.

You hail a cab. In the silence of the back seat you hear the music from the club echoing in your head. The warmth of Satchmo. The elegance of Duke Ellington. The manic raucousness of Louis Prima. And a melody that you can hear in your mind's ear but disappears like a waking dream when you try to sing it out loud. The sound of a city that no longer exists. That maybe only ever existed in your imagination. As you step out of the taxi you reach for your wallet but the only thing there is peacock feather.

Frenchmen Street 4am

Damn it Sure Is Hot Down Here In Heaven

A time traveling version of myself from the future came back to teach me this song. He told me that learned it at my age when *his* future self came back in time to teach him. But who wrote the song though?

Coronaissance Man

All the towns you visit are abandoned
All the thoughts you have stopped making sense
From where’d you hear the voices
   of the children who were singing
They’re watching you
  from secret places through the fence

All the roads you walk on are all empty
All the folks you met aren’t really there
Where are all your friends
   who came to cheer you on your journey
They run and hide
   each time they see your angry glare

Be afraid be afraid you should be terrified
So buy some mace,
and look for spaces you can hide
Cause the word’s a scary place
And the slightest trace could kill you
Lock your doors, look out for yours and stay alone

You can see the fires from your lookout
You can hear the chanting on the steam
Though you don’t know the language
  or the dialect they’re singing
Something inside you
   knows exactly what they mean

Be afraid be afraid you should be terrified
And buy some mace, defend your space
you might survive
Cause the word’s a scary place
And the slightest trace could kill you
So stay alone, Protect your home
You’re safe inside

Be Afraid!

Imagine a time when the rich were getting richer while the e poor got poorer. Where runaway schemes made people gamble their money on a crazy market selling nothing. When war was brewing all over Europe. When right wing militias squared off against a growing labor movement.

Something gigantic from deep in the ocean that never should have been disturbed surfaces into the brutal pacific light, shattering your flimsy elm boat. It focuses it’s horrible eye on you and recites a poem in a language that you can understand but not translate. A language that you can analyze but communicate only abstract emotions. 

The poem goes like this:

|:IV13#9#11  ii13#11  IVΔ7#9#11 IΔ9b13:|

|:II9#11  bII7#9#11  IΔ7#9#11   VII(11,b13):| I7#9#11

|:IV13#9#11  ii13#11  IVΔ7#9#11 IΔ9b13:|

VII(11,b13)

Ancient Elm Hat (Part 1)

A Lot Farther Away

2 years ago my wife and I had a big party to celebrate our wedding. Everyone in the crew (or at least those that could stay awake) stayed up all night until sunrise and walked with the Krewe of Eros (the god of love) in their parade that started at the End of the World.

Since it's Valentine's Day AND the anniversary of our Sunday Gras wedding party. There really wasn't a better time to put this song out into the ether.

Here we are
We've all been wandering here from near and far
And following the early morning stars
With all the boys and the girls
Here at the End of the World

Plastic trees
Instead of flowers they've been growing beads
But if you bury them they sprout like seeds
And come up knotted and curled
Here at the End of the World

We'll stay up till dawn on the night we get married
And make our friends wake up and see
We'll sit on the lawn looking down at the ferries
And bet on who gets to the sea
The signs on the building say "open your eyes"
But that's hard when you stayed up till dawn
The tents on the riverbank zip and untie
The boats on the river float on, they float on, they float on

Let's buy a boat
And we could live here off the songs I wrote
I'll fish the Mississippi and we'll float
While you go diving for pearls
Here at the End of the World

Look around
And they could see us at the Back of Town
Here in our little boat we float around
We bob around and we swirl
Here at the End of the World

You've been waking up early and taking an adderall
Making a costume for me 
So I wrote you this song it's so pretty and sad that I'll
Publish it poshumeriously
And everyone near us'll hear us exclaiming
Amazed as we make our way past
I'll sing and they'll cheer us won't take no explaining
They'll know that our love's gonna last, gonna last, gonna last

Orphaned in Storyville

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