POST PARDI PRIMADONNA
YAS BITCH ITS ECLIPSE SEASON; dirty little scoundrel’s stream of consciousness
I would write to you about Mardi Gras last week, but I am already here:
Outside smells like fresh moloch, it’s damp red soil digging into itself, richness for spring, it’s the thrill of possibilities that lay ahead. What is to bloom and to be forgiven?
New Orleans is being repotted as the Angel’s play their trumpets and leave them to hang from wooded shrubs,
the toxicology reports are back and deadly as ever.
The brute bite of the Sun. Gob bless.
The viciousness in the eyes of every beautiful woman, she can play you like a fiddle and you wouldn’t get the chance to count the signature shifts in this grand orchestration. But her melody slows, for she is still nature, forwarding a fair warning about the poison you’ve just ingested.
It wasn’t that I stopped writing, I just stopped writing to be read, to be understood, my lessons still unheard. By forgetting how to breathe, the corpse of the night ducked under the moon and found herself on the other side.
Here comes the eclipse
We have honest rage that is crawling out of the shadows, creaking behind doors, lit by the Moon; seeking a singular nod of acceptance before it truly is allowed to vanish.
It takes sensual discovery to appeal to where more is triggered, so more will be set free. The serpent is not to fear, but to know — the knowledge of the beholder unto thyself. Adaptation becomes its own witness when the bikes can pedal themselves.
What parts to unlearn with the tools that serve through memory?
I gather like the bees, my internal kaleidoscope, bouncing off ideas, plucking on new strings and trying to fathom the future world of regenerative medicine. Fruitful and unbound.
Oh how beautifully corrupt the existential experience can be. How by farce and fantasy our own fuel comes into duel. Your wishes sent out West, with the dedication to last for miles by teardrops in the dry desert.
The silliness that is solely a projection.
There is no flattery by the fool whose step is still in mid-air. The fool sings, not to be heard, but because someone else cares!
I want to write to you in my many facets of self, my cloaked and costumed personalities that mean well, and are often shy in the mornings. The words I hear and the ones I wish I had said.
The self that has a wicked obsession with chocolate and magnesium, mocha for coffee with the swing of my feet as I relay visions of my dreams from the countertops.
And not always with the same distinguished center of gravity,
I've weathered many battles of misconception,
I’ve turned around three times to grab the right coat,
I’ve cried over the wrong order, while the food is still being swallowed down my throat.
So I choose not to play myself by victim or villain, because I know we are both.
There’s a storyline within me that relates to you, intertwined this little life, provocative conversations two hold.
The self that dives over the pot of collard greens to get a taste of the liquor and extra bite of country sausage.
The self that dances in candlelight, overjoyed by the ancient essence embrace
Uncorked bottles pressed against the open doors
The exploration is limitless and overall charming.
My worries are fluid, easy come and East we go.
I think about all my dead grandparents and how they liked to spend their time,
for better or worse.
I’m sorry to sometimes feel the need to prove, I’ve lacked the belief, but God knows I am good, and I’ve been called “cool” enough times to accept. You tell me.
The mind’s shutters are opening for spring and the world I am excited for descends, steps relinquished from the heavens and earth’s surface with beauty again.
Even through this demonic demolition political disgrace.
Bit by the sea, coastal calls: “ Hello true love?”
“Yes, It is me”
cha cha real smooth now y’all🌊
stepping out of the ephemera,
With a brief look ahead,
More informative writing to come, sharing my favorite brand stories and ways we can honor this world through tradition and shared lineages.
Sharing more insights from the string of mutual musicians,
and the motherfucker ever-loving New Orleans experience.
If you want to pledge and share your coin I so humbly will accept- my mental downpour may not always be for free and public consumption.
Prove to me you care.
4 songs playing in my head:
The Art of Time Ensemble- After Mardi Gras 2020
Judy Collins- Both Sides of Now 1966
Caribou- Bees 2005
The Meters- Soul Island 1971
Okay I will start to write more about the record choices, but for now just enjoy the sounds and know that the deeper in-depth track studies are on the way.
xx