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Mosquitoes
Fly Out My Head
By Rudolph Lewis To
my lover’s house in
New Orleans East
I drive recklessly, 3am
an orange bug blur,
and she’s not home.
Ants crawl on raw flesh
testing whether I'm as strong
as truth in the mind,
hot coals scorching my brain.
Creole women are a mystic
sensuality—cold, hard as
gris-gris.
She's fine, long and tall.
I burn a St. Barbara candle
by her upturned photo.
I pour alcohol on a rising flame.
I'm murderous blue.
It's a day before Xmas
& I need one kind favor.
A ringing phone unanswered
ominous as graveyard dirt.
In cigarette smoke, she's
the devil's daughter-in-law.
My mojo is a pen, a pad in hand.
"44
Blues" runs across white keys.
Is she with another man? I can't
stand no more lies.
Party dice roll and tumble on snake eyes.
Mosquitoes fly out my head. |