HANGING IN THE BOWERY

Hanging in the Bowery with an intelligent hobo
Told him about my next gig in a groovy loft in Soho
I invited him to enjoy my Jazz Quartet’s performance
Not worrying whether he caused a raucous or disturbance
I needed his humor for my improvisational skim
His smile was precious though his immediate future looked dim.
Dreamed away his misery with an approach which wasn’t feeble
Looking through a haystack for his direction without a needle
Sacrificed acceptance for his freedom of thought and movement
Not adhering to the process of brainwash or etiquette improvement
Wore his colorful loudness with an oblique bullhorn madness
Screaming dissonant phrases to express his utter gladness
The men with the fishnet were lurking with a straight jacket
Waiting to pounce on him sideways without a sound or racket
However he always sensed their whereabouts and would jolt
from their grasp never paranoid of some outrageous revolt.
His philosophic modus operandi they did not comprehend
As he fidgeted with his nose looking downward not to condescend
Separated from the masses as an individualistic personality
Proud of his demeanor untouched by this mundane insanity
Trumpeting his fanfare of a chosen conscious existence
Never annoying his neighbor though shining with persistence
Gleaming with optimistic fantasies painted on the wall
Waiting for the heavens to witness his beckoning call
Devoid of the directionless chaos around him everyday
Shooting off his flares which boomerang and ricochet
Pleasant streams of meditative innuendos he does portray
to sooth the ravage beast with dandelions in a bouquet.
Hearing the sighs of whales while losing their communication
Singing their lonesome melodies to all their lost relation
Identifying with the paupers who chose their own departure
Transcending through materialism to embrace Mother Nature
Springing are the elves amongst the fairies and the imps
Trilling with Rumpelstiltskin as our hobo takes a glimpse
at the silly world around him quite shyly and demure.
Soon to be outraged with the immaculate and impeccably pure
Exploding with a burst of unexpected irrationality
To stir the boredom and create a new-fangled reality
Rolling a cigar with the finest herb and schrooms
Flying through his third eye to a land of peacock’s plumes
Left his earthly troubles and landed in a celestial palace
free of perpetrators of unfriendliness, negativity and malice.
Maladjusted in the eyes of an analytic pretentious quack
Heaving his foot in the direction of his proverbial sacroiliac
Scoffing at his theorems of his lack of banal normality
Our hobo enjoyed my conversations over inborn musicality
Chanting a blues with his soul overflowing with rapture
Making the blondes all blush as their attention he did capture
Looking into his face one could see his disconnection
An idiom for the angels lost in his godly perfection.