you, perceiving; me, perceived

by dschapman

i can’t believe on the eve of all these years that i’ll never live those days again. i grew up a troubadour among the minstrelsy, and my cuffs need some dusting off. i file the iron oxide off my tongue and mark the way for the weary once again. when a friend in need comes knocking on my door i boil a glass of shandy, peel some conference pears, and shim the mold from the block of moose milk cheese.  i cannot leave a lover in want, and if you get to feeling down, take a drive to old mississippi and we’ll go fishing in the evening sun. we won’t hardly move a muscle in that wondrous southern heat; we’ll bask, like stones, and experience something warm. i’ll catch us a catfish and fry it up; breaded, not battered, per taste. i take it rare; anything else is an offense to the meat.

“i like breaded fish, mamaw, not battered… i thought i told you.”

what must it have felt like, for the lucky ones, in those early days? when the new orleans saints won the superbowl, when everyone was drunk and in each other’s arms, reunited… when the forecast for the future saw sunny days, languid nights, and bonds of friendship as mighty as epoxy. had it always been so stupidly happy in those parts? could a place like that really exist? and where was i? junked out and asleep? yes, asleep… i went to bed hopeless and awoke in a world where the saints had won the superbowl. but i missed the transition. i’m still lagging one foot in the past. it’ll take a miracle for me to catch up now. something miraculous. something like a little girl walking through the woods with a photograph camera. or some cola in the studio flat up on loyola drive, where the bad men catch some sleep and, in lieu of belles or broads, drink honky-tonk and novacaine. through the windows, the desert goes forever and is freezing cold. and look at us, standing naked in the middle, ankle deep in dust (animal dander, roach waste, chemical vapor and flour) with our elbows touching. you always treated me kind.

o rimbaud o beautiful baby rimbaud id lv to idliek to see c u again

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