People ask me where I came from, how I got here. This I will tell you:

 

I was bored in the Little Apple on 5th & St. Mark’s at the crossroads of Checkpoint Charlie and the Little House on the Prairie. Mama was a modern artist, and Daddy was a rock'n'roll drummer till he joined the service and picked up jazz trombone. (He lost his hair but not his cool.) I kicked it on the sidelines till getting kicked in the head taught me I could read, then I couldn’t stop talking about it. French Quarter parades, Comanche Pow-Pows, Monkees reruns and Daddy's vinyl collection shaped my worldview way down yonder on the Chattahoochee. Southern culture on the skids was not my jam so I made a California dream instead, took a left at Albuquerque and ended up in Paris. (Mama had the last laugh.) Alone, unchained, chasing the sun for many moons, I found a car was cheaper. It got me back to New Orleans; an Amtrak train did the rest. The world's changed and so have I.

​

While my guitar gently weeps,

here I stand head in hand,

not necessarily stoned,

but beautiful.