T.

New Orleans was like someplace out of one of my

wacky dreamscapes, where the colors are wildly out of control

and every storefront offers something outrageously more intriguing

than the one before, every taste transports the dreamer

to food-time, exclusive of anything/anywhere else, 

while around every corner is yet a different set 

of musicians slinging a tune, plucking the strings

of a washtub bass, or letting that trombone/trumpet wail.

Voodoo, Catholic, altars in remembrance of deceased cats.

Bougainville, hibiscus, plumbago spilling from balconies,

voluptuous lures, pollen-laden stamens drooping in the heat.

Pink shotgun houses, purple gingerbreading, blue scrollwork.

Irregularly-cobbled sidewalks, potholed. Sonambulistic mules

harnessed to carriages in Jackson Square. Confectioner's sugar 

clouds at Cafe du Monde. The bric-a-brac trinket show

at the French Market, nearly everything under $10.

And the t-shirts:

"I got bourbon-faced on shit street."

"I want to be Barbie -- that bitch has everything."

"Don't make me poison your food!" (On an apron.)

On and on.