New Orleans 2016

January 20, 2016October 23, 2019 ~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

Wooden doors. French doors. Lockbar, cord sheath. Dormers, slate roofs—lots of slate roofs. Slate mulch for trees on Esplanade. Fluorescent plastic straws, a few pennies. Failed mortar. Church bell. If I had started counting from the top I would know what time it was. Gum wrappers, gum. Cracks. A red substance—wax? Wrought iron. Gas lamps, flickering flames. Cool breeze. The neck of a glass bottle. Spigots lacking handles. Woebegone cigars. Sheathes now for the downspouts. Tender aluminum? Spit, phlegm, leaves. Trumpet playing on Jackson Square. Heels on these pavers, dog snuff, bags being rolled along their luggage wheels burning and turning. Feathers, sparkles, glints, sequins. Buttons. Shadows. This building I'm leaning on improved by the Works Progress Administration, 1935-1936. Trumpeter playing and singing that Hank Williams song, "...down the bayou...," his singing not as good as his trumpet playing and I'm a little hung over, a little emotional, having a moment here, a future memory I think, tears caught on the inner face of my sunglasses.

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Hamburger Stand

July 4, 2006April 8, 2019 ~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

The slow ember burn of a cigarette night
lurches its way to the time-safe hamburger stand.
It’s just a little red shack napping on the back road
of a small mom’s-youth town. Still, its call reaches
out to the bicentennial highway, lapping at the ears
of those trucking visions of hot popping grease
and fries. Clenched-stomach truckers make
unplanned left-hand turns, beating back the
dirt road, their headlights fanning out
across the once-cut wheat like waves finding
the water-worn beach at midnight. The goddess
of ground beef, big of hip and thigh, sets
her thick elbow on the counter and asks
for several patties thick and sizzling.
We’ve got hungry goateed mouths to feed,
she says. Bikers and tourists kneel and salivate,
holding out their handlebar hands, looking
askance for ketchup and mustard. But the
goddess returns no onion. Her empty-bun
cry repeals all ablutions. It’s just ice-cream,
she says, going pink and cool at the center.
It’s just ice-cream.

Art at 8:30

April 21, 2006April 8, 2019 ~ johnbrandall ~ Leave a comment

The baseball game

Hello? Yeah, so, ah, Rafe came over and we watched some baseball. Eleven to eighteen? No, that was the score, but…you have to say the, ah, the highest score first.

The Loop

No, that’s all right… ha-ha… Yeah, I, I like stockpiling those things. What about the Loop? Ohhh…we got completely soaked, so maybe…well, you know, I, I really enjoyed the rain…ah-hah-hah…it was fun. I hadn’t been out running in the rain for awhile… My sandals so I just took ‘em off.

Lenore

Oh, that’s good…yeah…alright…I did not. I did not. Nuh-uh. What did you say? I did not say that, Lenore… I don’t think I said that. I really don’t remember saying that…Hm. Yeah, I was also talkin to Rafe about it today… What’s that?…[laugh]… No, well we got up at seven instead of 6:45. See, you don’t even remember it that well. You forgot the time that it happened—a half an hour wrong! You don’t remember any of the details, do you? You just remember Things.

Time is irrelevant? Yeah, it’s not important. So are the words that I used, huh?…[sigh]…Well,…ah, wait (?)…12:42…no…. I was kinda gettin tired [clear throat] and I wanted to, to call you before it was too late, so…I kind of pushed ‘em out…at the same time.…

Chicken Salad

So your house was fine? Your house was fine?… Is there still stuff in the freezer in that house?… Yeah… mm-hm… Well, not now… [p-shaw]… Gonna make some chicken salad tomorrow… You have class 'til eight-thirty?…. Alright, I’ll make some chicken salad sandwiches,… and I’ll make I’ll make… I’ll make, ah—you come over here and I’ll make dinner… and, ah, then we’ll go to your house and eat ice cream… you wanna do that?…