ode to the gulf wind rod naquin
I Over the improvised street, the balcony leans and the air mingles with oaks. Colorful food is strewn on the leaves, she moves like a jazz in the humid air and the way her thin blue jeans is stretched amuses me. What do words mean? What is this feeling I have? I’m as confused as the drunks that wake on Frenchmen. I am bound by no law, hear the nonsense of New Orleans bounce off the road. I am dazzled by the harsh sound of the horns, she said it didn’t matter how I smelled. The men had burned the marsh and settled here, I gave her the round quarter I found on the pavement. The church in this parish resounds with prayer and moves with the water. 168