In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Untitled Blues after a photograph by Yevgeni Yevtushenko I catch myself trying to look into the eyes of the photo, at a black boy behind a laughing white mask he's painted on. I could've been that boy years ago. Sure, I could say everything's copacetic, listen to a Buddy Bolden cornet cry from one of those coffinshaped houses called shotgun. We could meet in Storyville, famous for quadroons, with drunks discussing God around a honky-tonk piano. We could pretend we can't see the kitchen help under a cloud of steam. Other lurid snow jobs: night & day, the city clothed in her see-through French lace, as pigeons coo like a beggar chorus among makeshift studios on wheels-Vieux Carre belles having portraits painted twenty years younger. We could hand jive down on Bourbon & Conti where tap dancers hold to their last steps, mammy dolls frozen in glass cages. The boy locked inside your camera, perhaps he's luckyhe knows how to steal laughs in a place where your skin is your passport. N EON V ERN A C U L A R ...

Share