Some guy told me that New Orleans is a Scorpio city. I told him I haven’t been stung yet. I’ve seen the stinger but never taken it through the heart. He says you never see it until it hits you. But I think he’s lying as I sit in a bedroom with a full jazz band made up of two house poets and whoever can play from the audience joining them while the second loft of the room paints their naked bodies, tracing their beautiful curves in war paint and the third loft above stares down painting the entire thing on their canvases. The musicians stare upwards and I move into the next room following more sounds of jazz and easy vibrations into the front living room watching collaboration erupt from the night sky. I’m thinking of nothing other than this mansion is a powerhouse with so much culture it overflows into the alleyways and there’s so much color and psychedelic aspirations and people just finding their oneness, I’m a poet and I can’t think straight following the upright bass and beat of the drums. There’s drunk in the room and then there’s dream and these people frolic between the outer realms of existence and the things that make the creative being full (flow).