I'm about by what means words work up a okra of culture stamped and certified African delivered forward southern American soil In my word house We spit public articles and prepositions like bitter chewing tobacco We lean forward words that paint pictures of galait and grits and dutiful times sittin' under gallery shades sippin' lemonade wearin' the afternoon like a modern dress This.

I'm about by what means words work up a okra of culture stamped and certified African delivered forward southern American soil In my word house We spit public articles and prepositions like bitter chewing tobacco We lean forward words that paint pictures of galait and grits and dutiful times sittin' under gallery shades sippin' lemonade wearin' the afternoon like a modern dress

This, my birthright, gives a sence of place that acquires under your skin like a swamp leech or a beneficial story out for blood The region gives you toast or beignets with jam The R&B in the bluess and Reggae rhythms spice Saturday-night evening meals and street parades when the Grand Marshall leads the 2nd line after a funeral or any beneficial excuse to party where umbrellas dance

Folk all colored from pale and gold-colored to midnight blue-black never just stand back and watch they gon' say it to what degree they see it how they be moved 'bout everything and then near from roaches to do-rags from daddy-do right to David Ku-Klux Duke to sisters wringing the barest collection for another meal So, here's a taste begun in a roux sauteed in lines like "trust a man as far as you can papal court him 'cause you know stiff essence don't have no conscience"

Sista Sarah said She had nine kids and three grandkids didn't turn the thoughts a day over 40 Said she was preserved'cause "she left the drollery box in and took the incommode box out"

Then Hebert carve in from the curb and sport was all he heard Said he was "the women's angry mood the sissy's regret and the whore's lollipop" And Sista Sarah said "pass the bread, 'cause that's baloney for true!"

in this way call this a Crescent City mambo of days in peopl roads or nights in low-lighted sets on boulevards where passers-by pale and blossoming like days-old irises or azaleas the places where neighborhood effrontery porches and side galleries stand vigil for tall talkers and pass-the-time rappers here, in my house a new moon City mambo in words

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