For my old street singing buddy
Crazy Horse Danny
no reunions on stage for
us/ the ‘Frozen Chosen”
we never played much
on stages anyways/ 1973
usually a streetcorner/ a
telephone + a
parking meter were all
we needed to put on a
show: a couple winos
would glare red faced +
itchy
from the curbstones/
leaning on a letter box while
the neon flashed/ + the
headlights crashed/ the cop
on the sidewalk/ sends
for the paddywagon/ so we
had
to dash/ How is a life like
this pieced together? You
worked
on the black market +
fringe/ jobs like guarding
the pot fields
for the jungle growers in
Hawaii/ hustles/ rock +roll
cover
bands for Honolulu
tourists. Our secrets +
dreams were
looked up + mixed in
poverty’s ferocious history/
always
one step in back// so if
we get weak/ too lonely/or
drunk on cheap
fireworks. If his eyes are
swollen from a
brawl on Broadway/ with
usurpers who had the nerve
to
pull a swithchblade/
Danny reached into the the
trash
bin + pulled out a
weapon: a coke bottle/ one
of the
ones made of glass/
boink! boink! boink! on the
guys head
the fight then garbage
canned right across the
street through
nightclub traffic + into
the Garcia Vega Cigar store
+ here comes
Nick the Cop. We split up
the alleys–reconvene at the
Coffee
Gallery. Later we follow a
drunken man who flashes
a roll of
bills at us/ while throwing
a tip in our case/ all the way
to
Washington Park/ but we
decide not to roll him/ what
if he
yells + we have to hit
him? “I can’t do that for
money, man.”
we’re broke + hungry/
with nowhere to go/ but
Heaven.