There's Boston and there's Baton Rouge, and then there's here where I am. Where I am isn't home, and it isn't where jasmine juice squeezes out of the black men's pores to make jambalaya perfume in the velvet air.

No, I'm up here. North. Where the temperature acts like there's a gold rush in the middle of the Earth, and it plans to dig and dig on down.

I'm this close to dreaming about licking the sweat of a Baton Rouge black man; although, I'd much prefer to lick the women. Either way, the cold has got me kissing this shattered air for a hint of a waft of jambalaya.

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