I was sitting in my studio last Tuesday, the afternoon sun casting long, golden shadows across my floor, when I caught sight of it: a jagged, unsightly crater in the…

I was elbow-deep in a pile of sawdust and regret last Tuesday, staring at a sagging, particle-board disaster that looked more like a tired accordion than a piece of furniture.…

The dust was still settling in my tiny studio apartment, coating my favorite jazz records in a fine, gritty layer of red clay, when I realized I’d made a classic…

I was sitting in a dusty corner of a little shop in the French Quarter, rearranging a stack of poetry volumes to form a makeshift sonnet, when the whole display…

I was sitting in a sun-drenched corner of a local bookstore yesterday, trying to arrange a few titles into a little poem, when the rhythm of my thoughts was shattered…

I remember sitting in a cramped, dimly lit corner of a French Quarter cafe years ago, the scent of chicory coffee thick in the air, trying to coax a poem…

I was sitting in a dusty corner of a New Orleans jazz club last week, watching a saxophonist struggle through a set, and it hit me: most people treat technical…

I was sitting in a cramped, humid basement in the French Quarter last summer, the air thick with the smell of old stone and damp earth, when the silence was…

I was sitting in a sun-drenched corner of a tiny bookstore in the French Quarter, rearranging a stack of weathered paperbacks into a makeshift poem, when the thought hit me:…

Picture this: I'm midway through a late‑night jam in my cramped New Orleans loft, when a 3‑by‑5 board slides off my bench with a sigh that sounds like a brushed‑cymbal…