The street was storm-sacked.

I recalled watching death

of the cajun sell-out across the street

in the gas line fire.


I recall I woke to the wind talking to my wall

nothing to feel empowered.

I woke wondering how I was going to keep sane

it’s been three days now.


I thought of my mother, before her grieving.

I told him let me live there would be no charges.

I thought he said he’d had too many dropped.


I went to the corner store.

The neighbors spoke coded 

like they didn’t recognize me,

avoiding some unsavory topic,

avoiding this flood, this substance.


They were looking unwashed.

The water was stale and drying

but those looks would stay

waterlogged many months yet.



I learned all I could here

but then the sheet metal started flying.

The Korean dirtbag was with fake atticus

smoking bones on the levee.

They’re trying to touch the storm surge.

The waves pushed them lateral

like the blades of a bulldozer.

No  one had seen them.


I remember the light kicked out

the walls making like

they were trying to slam down,

the mantle wanted to

slow boogie with your portraits


We lived on the highground

above the bowl.

I punched a man for

talking to me about god and luck


Waiting for more in the static 

on the offbrand scanners.

Gumbo was putting what they had left in the family van.

She said they were headed for Houston.


Someone had a radio going

but no batteries.

The cops set up at the school

but no one wanted to go 

unless somebody started shooting.