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.