Going Into the Woods, by Christine Boese
Wear it like a loose shirt, maybe silk,
maybe stuck to some sweat
in the middle of your back.
It is easy to be here after the long drive
Ponchartrain. Everything hangs low
but the graves, vaulted
Seamless August nights on Bourbon Street
are for tourists. If this
they'd charge thirty bucks to get in.
But it isn't,
and you are one, so go on.
Stay drunk and you won't notice
money leaving your wallet.
Fall in love with a Jimmy Buffet-singing surfer
blond hair and amazing longevity.
Fuck away the afternoons at Le
Leave your hair loose and long like his and
miniskirts, with little bells around your ankles.
Love the blues.
Or discover Bloody Mary oblivion
and 7 p.m. technopop with dry ice
Haunt a Blackjack machine now because
later you will
sing Otis Redding's hits
to an empty Karioke bar.
Leave the sad sex show with overweight strippers
for the fake
orgasm contest down the street.
Better yet, be the blond existentialist surfer
longevity. Run three miles
through your hangover in the steaming
Cool off in a flourescent parrothead bar
flourescent green drink.
Find a psychic in the French Market
who will take a beignet to tell
your past life was royal, how you should
novels at sea and
watch what you eat.
Or be the chef and owner of a hidden restaurant
on Chartres. Cook
with your soul
and on a slow Sunday, stand in the street
call in customers. And when they come
to your empty tables and
exposed structural brick
serve up New Orleans tableside
light it on fire.
By Christine Boese
© 1993, Santa Clara Review, reprinted with permission.
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