The city that sleeps in a hammock of Southern Comfort


This being a predominantly poetry blog, I would be remiss not to include a sonnet.
With Mardi Gras still on my mind, heightened by the pining of pious Catholics for vices of chocolate, coffee, and meat on certain days of the week (tis the season to jolly well deprive oneself), I think of all these incredible experiences I’ve had in New Orleans. From the coke fiend need for powered sugar and beignets, to the praline street art that litters the highways, it’s truly a majestic place to spend the tepid seasons.

Anyways, this sonnet comes from the archives of my Louisiana time, and age of…something:

Sonnet: Deserted Levees

These men in fishbowls like fish in manholes,
they were tried as criminals afterwards.

The diary of Goldfish in a pint glass:
“Day seven of my imprisonment—
Though maybe I’ve forgotten what days are;
perhaps I never knew in the first place.

I have not yet been fed, and my belly guides
me to do riotous things. I find myself
looting the residue of beer nuts left
in cracks at the bottom of my domed

glass prison. But last of my brothers yet, of those
drowned in sand/starved dry in upside-down rafts.
We ran away from a hurricane straight
into the waiting arms of trawling season.”

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