Last night i had a dream: it depicted my dead grandmother, whom which i share the same German legs as her. In the dream she was resurrected.
A few weeks ago my family's hometown of Louisiana Missouri was choked under the muddy waters of a Mississippi flood. The ghost like town inhabited by my family for generations, floating under murky waters. So, alone in a search for something tangible i find as many things in family lineage dies or gets wet, lost, torn, burned, disintegrated. Today, I found in the crevasses of my fathers oak sock drawer, pictures of a phosphorescent New Orleans, of children with beautifully pure faces mussed up by the bayous heat. I found my grandmothers legs, twine and a winter prayer from a congregation my father seeked in Louisiana for i guess guidance. This is what small towns do, lull you to a Huckleberry coma until something dies, your mother, until the floods hit again and you have to find a sin city to scoop you up, get you melancholy and drunk and parade you into a humid state of loveliness, where nothing has recognition, where everything is blurred by the past, your subconscious and the absinthe you drank, with the reefer you inhaled, with the fat man you took pictures of. Until the loss of your town and your mother doesn't hurt and spirits become steady in your skull.
A summers prayer.
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