Writing and More New Orleans Stuff

From the van ride:

Atlanta, a pile of skyscrapers, homeless, and identical white houses. Highways, bloated and thick as the veins which support my grandfather's legs. They stretch from Atlanta to the world.

The Appalachians, a series of thick creases in the Map.

Boston, New York, Portland. All spill and leap from the rightmost edges of those long and rinkled mountains.

Left of Atlanta the finger stumbles over oasii among Midwestern slumber. St. Louis Silver Springs. Boulder. Nestled in cracks of thought and movement.

San Francisco battles New Orleans. Both are have been will be scarred. Survivors wander their streets, gibbering and grasping government checks.

Japan lies on the other side. Japan is wildflowers grown through concrete; laughing leaping children wearing starched origami folded uniforms.

There is no ocean. Borders are thought and tremulous shaken away dreams.




Pictures were taken in New Orleans lower 9th ward. 6 months after the hurricane.

If everything works out, I should be down in New Orleans again, volunteering with an organization called Common Grounds the first month of summer. The organization is pretty cool, mainly young people doing things like gutting houses, distributing food and medical supplies, rebuilding community centers, and providing counseling and tutoring for survivors.