People have been asking Eskimo whatever happened to Indigo Moor, so she asked if 
he would give us all an update.  

Letter and 2 poems from Indigo Moor (IMoor2001@netscape.net)

Eskimo, 
I am living in Cambridge, Ma. engulfed by an incredible arts community. I spend
most of my poetic time at The Lizard Lounge (Jazz and Poetry venue), The Cantab
(hosted by Michael Brown) and Rituals (hosted by Reggie Gibson). I just completed 
my first feature at the Center for the Arts in Natick. I have a feature April 12th 
at the Poet's Parlor in Sturbridge, Ma., a feature on April 13 at Rhythm & Muse 
in Berkeley, and a feature May 18th at Mothwings overlooking Walden Pond. I was in 
the studio a couple weeks ago laying down the vocals for an upcoming CD entitled
"Indigo Blues." Brian James and Mickey are handling the original composition of Blues
music.  I spend 4 hours a week voluntering at "Ten Thousand Villages." My oldest 
daughter is living with me and we have been kicking around various places and scenes. 
She is taking guitar lessons. I found an instructor for the upright bass. And, of 
course, I'm working long hours.So I'm getting about 4 hours of sleep a night (maybe).

Love your web site. Sorry I didn't get out more on my trip home. Heather and I ended 
up taking care of everyone there (strep).

Keep writing. Warm letters help with cold weather.  I've been writing a lot. I've 
attached a couple. Hope you like them.

Peace and Light
Indigo Moor


Eskimo requests that her readers send letters and poems to Indigo at 
IMoor2001@netscape.net to help him keep the fire burning.  


A Man Burning Unnoticed in Harvard Square 

Sidewalk Sam burns on the corner 
with a borrowed cigarette unlit in his mouth.
"Brother, you smoke?" he says 
through lips dark as an iron skillet, 
aged and blackened by naked flames. 
I stop, 
Marveling 
As kindling catches behind his eyes. 
"Nah, I don't." 

He eyes me as a mark 
and sparks leap from his tongue. 
...got a dollar, man?  I just need 
one more to finish my Ph.D...."
But his words are wasted. 
I have already been captivated by his hair 
erupting like breasted Robins streaking 
across the bleeding edge of sunset; 
The blaze filling my eyes. 

I give him a dollar, crumpling it into 
the basin of his cupped hands, 
Where it smolders to 
bone-ash amongst fired stone. 
"Thanks, man," he grins, tongue 
splitting like a pomegranate.
Steam rises from the crevice, 
ghosting him as he darts down the subway stairs. 
New England winter defies his substance.
A chilled, pristine breeze rushes to fill 
the space where he has stood, 
claiming aloud that he had never been there.  

Copyright Indigo Moor 

Holly Street Remembered 

It is time to close the door 
on another bastion of my mind. 
I call upon this recollection 
   to succumb to a burial spell for 
rememberances spent. 

Slowly he comes, as honeysuckle scents 
   on a languid breeze. 
He leans on a dust swirled streetlight 
suspended by a single strand of darkness. 
This soul Lazarus lived on the streets, 
   sharpened his life on the whetstone 
   of pebbled blacktop. 
His face is absent, having been absorbed 
into one of the shadowed expanses of houses 
that dodges direct moonlight, 
   refuses distinction in my memory. 

His name is every name 
   on the road where I grew up. 
Holly Street, now relegated to ghostly status, 
spectra of dirt and soul and lost dreams. 
He dances to Sly Stone and the Ohio Players 
   in slow marionette poses; 
Spotlighted by fireflies and whiskey gleams 
   from bottles perpetually open and half full.
His shoes are polished souls, 
   black, wet and cracked as a cooking cauldron 
      softened by morning dew. 

A woman approaches     barefoot. 
Hair straightened, flaxen. 
Skin dark as blackened oak. 
A memory scar of forced bussing
lies like a sapling across the back of one thigh.

His feet tap a sound of 100 broomsticks 
   on a 100 tennis balls. 

From behind him, she raises his arms, 
uses the frying pan flats of her hands 
to beat a sense of her drum song 
upon his suddenly naked torso. 
Pushing out a days/decades pain from his soul; 
   squeezings from a bitter cane stalk. 
A sound unnamed escapes his lips. 
The moan catches the air as a sail 
   as he lowers his arms, 
believing the emanation belongs to someone else 
   who couldn't cope as he had. 

Their heads lower, 
   Lower. 
Arm in arm they retreat to shadows. 
With them, goes my mind, 
Closing forever on this place 
   that sparks once and then dies, 
Leaving in my heart a sentiment 
that melancholy saxes only lean towards. 

Copyright Indigo Moor