They called him Jah Kaba from Maurice Parish poppin jellybeans instead valium now- he kept his anxiety at bay, The bayous were warm and reminded him of the womb, as he stepped out of the shower, drying off with his towel, the sweat was already beading up on his brow, just like it always had in the bush… never far from that place that entered his dreams. Sweet hash, swampdonkeys, Little Wing… yes Boss. –  “Tomorrow’s a new day.” he liked to tell himself, and he believed it. Making offerings at the crossroads, carrying his own kinda’ mojo. – Pinecones from Yosemite that adorned the shelf above his T.V., a piece a flint he was sure was an arrow found by a warrior (him) in a river, and those turkey feathers from some road kill he pretended were hawk feathers. He weren’t foolin’ himself, just amusing hisself. He laughed inside about that. – That’s funny, and the Van-Van spray is too, he thought… The smiled fell from his face as he gently regarded his gris-gris. High John and Gator talk… Now that’s not funny. He buttoned his shirt. Thinking about New Orleans sellin all that crap, Van-Van and fake Bend Over. He almost never ventured across the Mississippi anymore, all them city folk. Too many people, moving too fast with weird ideas and thoughts about vampires, and trying to find life on Mars, live forever, forgetting about God, hop scotchin’ on Marie Laveau’s grave, they had some nerve. Hybrid the world, eat a banana melon and then going and turning jazz into pop. What next? He thought about decay, it comforted him; it was level, like all the natural disasters. He thought about the news broad casters giving human attributes to natural occurrences. How odd and ignorant, he couldn’t help thinking to hisself. -His brother was a geologist and they had gone into the night with this subject… “Murderous Winds”- “Killer Tornado”, -We’re just another flash in the pan, just like Lucy was, he’s thinkin’ as he felt the muselebende in his toby, making sure his shirt was buttoned. – He was now putting his old guitar and tackle box in his pirogue along with the citronella,  he knew the way out to the caves, passed them overgrown shanty shacks by Jemma’s Juke Joint with it’s galvanized roof. “Best hush puppies on the water!” Across from the Cypress Groves. –There he would leave his offerings then make camp and rest up waitin’ for TopHat, Jemma, RedMan and the rest of them to join him on the bayou for the weekend.