Street corner music man,

Fourth and market,

old skinhead black guy

in knee long lab coat

marked “lab technician”

dug out of hospital dumpster,

squattin’ on rattan basket,


fish bowl out front his gig

on gummed up cement

stuffed wiff green backs,

loose change, what-not,

for riffs of cosmos

upside/down, inside/out,


syncopatin’ wiff overturned five gallon

paint cans, dented pots, fry pans,

52 oz glass jars, metal buckets,

gone wild wiff ancient drum sticks,

shoutin’ out, cryin’ out,


“Save the world! Pee-pull!…”

“Save the world! Pee-pull!…



to young and mix race lovers,

androgynes, LGTB’s,

arm n’ arm friends, runaways,

pimps, pink and purple hairs,

all time Halloweeners,

weekend grandmas wiff kids,

poser college dudes n’ chicks,

tourists in medley of designer

rip offs from discount stores

in today’s colors, leathers, tams,

jazzin’, laughin’, hurryin’

no place, no day,


carryin’ on to his Carib,

bang, bang, bangin’

timpanic, street wise,

sing-song chantin’ y’all:


“Lisss-en, pee-pull!

Lisss-en, pee-pull!

Lisss-en, pee-pull!…”

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