Street Performers In The Park B&W 4

Moving to the North from the South

The air up here dries my skin. I rub lotion on my hand then let it fill in the cracks of my palm, fortuneless. Where I’m from a woman in the street will sit you down at a collapsible table draped in scratchy, purple velvet to tell you how you are going to die for five dollars. Cher baby, do you feel that postcard voodoo working? This is a tourist trap language that no one remembers how to speak. Souvenir tarot cards and tabasco sauce keychains, gift shop bluegrass, and jazz on the street make you want to tape quarters onto the soles of your shoes and shuffle. We dance in those streets for parades and for funerals. This place bleeds glitter and authenticity. Let the good times roll, we ain’t moving. We day drink in front of the children on the porch, while they mark up the front steps with pastel chalk. Everything happens out in the open. Here only a fool would stay inside. Too much water damage on the hardwood from the last time we were supposed to evacuate. The only thing that clears the road is when the coast rises over the levee, past the azalea bushes. Even then, someone’s still home. Only a fool wouldn’t want to be a part of this. We are paper masks and nipple tassels. Go ahead and twirl, someone will put an extra quarter in the trumpet player’s hat if you do.