H
e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s
b e r g
N
a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i
v e s E d i t i o n
VIVIAN DEMUTH
Big Easy Ride
One evening after the hurricane, I was the only
one on the Canal Street Bus that was driven
by a skeleton who steered past the
waterlines
of fungal communities and past the broken
doors
of Macy’s and hurricane adjusters and
stopped
at the Zydeco
Beer and Wine shop where more
skeletons, who were
grieving lost parents and pets,
boarded with a swamp
monster who'd survived
ten days on the Holiday Inn rooftop and
who vowed, “You gotta
have Faith.”
Two construction workers sat down beside
me, said, “Mama, como
está,” and fell asleep.
A skeleton across from me asked, “Weren’t you
at that shelter in Houston?” I shook my
head
and wondered what ward I was in? By the House
of Voodoo, a big-haired waitress boarded
with
a blue potion that she swore would fix
them levees.
Just when I thought I’d perish, we stopped
in Pirates Alley for forty funny fellows
with horns
and one burlesque professor yelling, “You
can’t grieve
forever.” At the St.
Louis cemeterie, the skull
of the bus driver yelled, “Last stop,” and
we all
marched off in a jazz
funeral procession, carrying
lit torches to the society tombs of
musicians
and workers, and we sang for the Katrina
victims
scattered under and
across the land--for us all.
Before dawn broke, we built our own hurricane
tomb from broken bottles, stones and bones
in a deserted corner of the cemeterie, and laid down
our souls to rest under a crescent city
morning rain.
[Originally published in NHS 2006,
http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs06/Demuth.htm.]