5433. STORYVILLE

STORYVILLE

One of those festive places, famed and of

note  -  what? New Orleans, Louis Armstrong,

any of that? We cater to the maleficent among us,

wearing unarmed greatcoats and polished-high shoes.

The jack-skeeter on the trombone, the dice-man

on the high-hat and drums. I wouldn't know anything,

even if I knew everything. See how well it goes? The

caper of the masquerade, all over now and finished.

-

I learned my dread in 1965. Some schoolroom filled

with matter, and fluorescent late-night lights. I had

to live there, it would seem then, forever : those

prancing-beast priests with their immaculate concepts

and immaculate conceptions, pearling my hands like a

rifle butt, whipping me back with their big-strap

rosary beads, hanging like weapons on their

hips and sides. Belted garbs and cigarette men.

-

I'd see it all now in the new magic kingdom : I thrived

for you instead thinking of what a pussy was, how a

real girl would kiss, what the purpose of this man-thing

was. Mothers now, mothers I tell you : don't send your

kids away. A cloistered stall is a pigsty all.