I found somewhere warm in Memphis. It led me to New Orleans, got lost along the way.
And then I had a dream about Debbie Harry’s daughter, rearing up out of some other nowhere and into my own.
She said, “An island loves a mandala, even as it scatters with the sands.”
And she could only sting the sky as it lifted, as her dullard’s hands hung bullion from her shoulders.
When colors and shades unseen for years leave their burns on the nerve,
you chase them like floaters and flashes, but they’re never not another bit too far.
As the afterimage dies, every shadow gets swallowed in the pulse.
And all night long, the rods are spared of seeing stars.
So should it reach the drums down in south Louisiana,
I’m issuin' an aisle of view.