J'MAINTENANT
This guy was speaking some Creole French I couldn't ever
understand - even here in the French quarter, of brazen
hippos and over-the-hill whores. He wouldn't shut up and some
Molly Bloom type, I swear, was puking on his shoes. I reached
over to tuck at his lapel - 'I maintain your feet are wet.' I actually
did try to say that in French, but it came out a slobbering mess.
-
Third floor balconies held sunshine hookers. Two fiends from
Missouri were drinking in the street, sitting on the curb, settling
accounts with Monsieur Constabulent, who'd just flown in from
St. Petersburg, filming a documentary on biological variations.
Everywhere above us, the pale sky was shimmering with its
elixir of doubt and wonder soon to pour down upon our heads.
-
Thursday, the Virgin Mary arrives; done up in robes and
ermine, she stays in place along the edge of a singular wall.
The locals come to visit, scrounging for change to throw
in her cup. 'She looks more like Lady Bagatelle than anything
I'd ever do. I love the way her nose dribbles a holy drip.'
Creole religion, masterful mysteries and bayou suicides,
all wrapped up in one big, swirling enigma, j'maintenant.
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