Words of Acadiana

There is a soul born of the swamp — heavy with humidity, veiled in cypress shade, its breath perfumed with decay and jasmine. Its feet are sunk deep into the dark waters of Louisiana, where roots twist like serpents and ghosts hum low songs beneath the surface, where the cypress communicate. The air itself feels ancient here, thick with memory, with love lost and reborn through centuries. It is a place where death feeds life, where everything rots into beauty. And this soul, old and restless, has learned to drink from that decay — to savor the ache of existence like a vampire sips eternity from a lover who must perish.  But its heart… its heart beats for the desert. For the dry kiss of wind on cracked lips. For the holy silence where bones bleach beneath a sun too cruel for lies. It dreams of sand and stone, of mesas that glow blood-red at dusk, of moons so bright they could cut through the body and show the soul inside. The desert calls like a mirage — a place of purification, asc...

  In the heart of southern Louisiana, where the air hangs thick with humidity and memory, an ancient live oak stands. Its trunk is gnarled and swollen, twisted by time and thunder. The bark bears the calligraphy of centuries—etched by storms, carved by hands, scarred by sorrow. Exposed roots coil outward like the ribs of the earth itself, gripping the swamp’s dark belly as if afraid to let go. Spanish moss drapes from the branches, long and silver like the ghosts of forgotten prayers. When the wind sighs through, it stirs them to life—pale, swaying reminders of the nooses that once swung there, heavy with silence and injustice. The tree has seen it all. Two hundred years of dawns rising red over the bayou. Of rain flooding its feet, of children playing beneath its shade, of blood spilled and secrets buried in the mud. It is not merely a tree. It is a witness. A keeper of stories that humans have long tried to forget. When you stand before it, you feel a pulse beneath the bark, a sl...

The rug breathes like an old soul. Woven long ago by a Navajo weaver whose hands spoke in the sacred language of thread, it carries the quiet hum of generations. Its cross pattern—beige as desert bone, black as shadowed mesa, and red as blood steeped in cochineal—forms more than a design. It is a map of memory, a prayer laid flat, a spell caught between warp and weft. Time has touched it gently, then harshly. The once-bright red has faded to a dusky rose, the black softened into charcoal whispers. Dust has settled deep in its fibers, like the ghost of the land itself—ochre sand, volcanic ash, the scent of cedar smoke. The patina is a story written not in ink but in endurance. You can almost hear the murmurs of those who once sat upon it, the creak of wooden floors, the sound of wind moaning through cholla. It feels alive still. When you run your hand over it, you sense pulse and warmth, as if each knot remembers the woman who tied it, the songs she hummed beneath her breath, the sacred...

  Fever Dreams of Far West Texas I live off cigarettes and sadness, each drag a prayer to forgotten gods who sleep beneath the mesas, their dreams scattered like bones bleaching in the open mouth of the sun. The desert hums in burnt umber and terracotta, its light gold and merciless, sliding over flesh until I no longer know where skin ends and the earth begins. Dust rises like breath, a spirit made visible, and I swear it knows my name. Smoke curls from my lips— incense for ghosts that still linger, whispering through the ocotillo and sage. They speak in fevered winds, in the hiss of sand against my boots, in the ache between thunderclaps. Ravens carve dark geometry into the sky, their shadows falling across my face like blessings or warnings. They remember what I’ve forgotten— the sacred hunger of solitude, the soft hum of madness that comes from listening too long to the desert’s pulse. Witches gather at the horizon’s edge, their songs woven from dust and grief. They tell me the...

  He holds an encyclopedia of hurt— its pages smell of dust, iron, and lilac smoke. Every word an echo of his mother’s decisions— the ones that carved small altars into his bones. When he reads it, the lamps flicker. Ghosts of his past selves step softly from the corners— the boy with wet eyes and silence in his throat, the youth who tried to burn every tender thing he touched, the man who listens now to the wind as if it might forgive him. They gather around his desk, their shadows whispering like old paper set aflame, and he writes— each sentence a resurrection, each paragraph a spell to summon light from the long corridors of loss. Outside, the desert hums— an expanse of longing where no love grows without pain first rooting itself in the heart’s dry soil. He’s learned this truth: from ruin comes language, from ache, the sacred ink. Some nights he thanks her— the mother who became a storm he had to survive— for teaching him how to find beauty in the wreckage. The encyclopedia cl...

  In the swamp, the air was heavy with memory— water thick as sorrow, roots tangled like the mind of a man who has forgotten what light feels like. He wandered, half spirit, half wound, drifting through cypress shadows that whispered his name without mercy. Every step was a prayer he didn’t believe in. But the desert called— not with words, but with silence so vast it swallowed his doubt whole. The wind stripped him bare, peeled away the moss and grief until only bone and breath remained. The sun burned through his illusions and found a glimmer beneath— a spark that still remembered flight. When the dust rose in spirals, he followed it upward, skin to feather, heart to horizon. The hawk that broke from his chest was not an escape but a return— to clarity, to spirit, to the endless communion of sky. Now he circles with the cloud spirits, where the swamp’s sorrow cannot reach, where the desert wind hums forgiveness, and the lost man is lost no longer.