More Outliers Please
New Orleans collects the dirt for my dirt bathes. Here I find it easy to flex my back dipping over like a rhino in the mud. The dirt comes down from the houses, some fixed up in rows, some with holes in the sides spilling splinters and dust. Some houses trip over themselves facing down creating huge piles of dirt. The dirt is from the fires and and the floods and the old cypress boards. It’s from the tourists who buy it in gallons and spit and piss it in cobble stone street gutters, it luffs from loose dreadlocks, it collects along the levees and brought down from the north to New Orleans. It’s in the soybeans and oil oozing up the mississippi and boards from the swamps to nail a window frame in. This is no San Francisco or New York, this is different, pushed and pulled and tackled to the ground. A sullied jewel: broken like a ripe cantaloupe in the dirt - everyone staring, dancing and drinking around the juicy mess.