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wounded deity on frenchmen street







wounded deity on frenchmen street 





too much spit on his instrument

gave the clarinetist enough confidence,

as he stumbled out of the Spotted Cat,

smoking a cigarette during his set break, and,

not so smoothly,

dropping his bourbon and coke on the curb,

cutting his fingers, good on the glass, as he cursed,

belligerently falling over, 

telling the cab driver, still waiting on me,

that he could kiss his lucky ass because the world

already knew who the fuck he was—ha!

some kind of wicked chuckle,

but how this dream of a fellow

got a hold of a pen, next,

to scribble his number on a napkin, escapes me now,

though it read, “call me please please”

somehow i knew i would be staying, for the sake of music, or,

to lick the blood off this wild and wounded deity—

who, as it turns out,

played the clarinet, among other things,

just fine, with a busted hand.





Eliana Vanessa




I grew up in New Orleans, Louisiana, a great place for inspiration!  I have been previously published in The Horror Zine, The Rye Whiskey Review Ezine, The Ramingo’s Porch as well as Sirens Call Ezine, as well as the anthology, Masks Still Aren’t Enough (2018).  I recently participated in the Jane Austen Literary Fest (2017, 2018, &2019, upcoming) as a part of a panel of poets and currently attend various writing groups in Louisiana, including: Poets Alive, Into The Woods, and Bayou Writers.

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