Man! With all due humility, for a moment I thought they had posted one of my little jags; the insistent but inconsistent internal rhyme (intentionally thus, I would suggest), the compulsion of the writing to be read quickly, as if following lyrics or some beat, some rhythm, inside the writer's head, the requirement that the reader connect synapses, establish links, find a personal meaning, and then, of course, less significant, that sometimes annoying habit I have of repeating myself, as the author does at the end, as if this is necessary in order to stress the point.
Not that I do all of the above, but I try. This resonates for me for all of the above reasons, and for the same reasons is somewhat suspect.
It sounds like a stroll through the French Quarter to me, without knowing the poet's history and without have yet read any of the other responses. And if I have the city wrong, I am confident that it is the accumulation of sensations from someone who has taken an amble along some city's streets, perhaps with a stop to visit a dying friend in the hospital, and that in the end none of the sounds and sites and thoughts epxerienced are a threat to the author's ability to continue weaving his daily threads, his poems, I surmise.
So: a poem about poetry, and, in a strange and abstract way, a single photo of an entire day, a collage of sensory and emotional remnants.
Take care,
Joe
