b.z. niditch | advice on bourbon st.


Mark my words
man, your chance
is now or ever,
tear your teen red eyes
to cover Bourbon Street
in the gleam of lanterns
struck at Mardi Gras,
while time remains
loose the swizzle stick
of runaway hands
undo those fingers,man
turn your lunatic sax
to swing on the shaft
of water hole soundings,
explode like a madman
like a kid on fire
to split notes
during your gig here
and then your new born
tones will be limitless
under these wellspring
New Orleans gaslights
consuming the luster
at a city’s carnival,
float your alphabet notes
to zero in
on a thousand scales
of Bourbon St. Blues
blow a white-hot fever
rim by waxed lungs
unmatched by lines
played by no one else,
be a countless witness
to a breathless hour
like some angel landing
on the stiff pages
of a Poe poem
that angel
with coiled white hair
who makes waves
by the port city
in the open night air.

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