Friday, July 10, 2015

Among the Middle Class, a French Couple waits for their Dime Bag

Orange Jamaican dude grizzly charm came calling often at night
House of a French couple we passed time playing miniature hoops
Resident artist, thing that became him most was the way he goofed
Guerilla boy stretched canvases inside his apartment on Murray Hill
There we were last of the Heaven cool, café kids kvetching like insects
Macho mayhem giving weight to defense, the origin of Abdul-Jabbar
How he slid and slashed gave a facial to any member of the middle class
Self-made, ego a go-go, passed out business cards to wallet heads
All because he had it in him, small time Confucius waiting on customers
In the company of Blondie and Francois laughter was heart medicine
Money passed through their living room and on walls with paintings
Most evenings we philosophized about art, me and the Graffiti Tag Thief
His collage work was his claim to fame, drank vodka martinis by rule
The Jamaican would knock three times on the door, they let him in
Do the dirty deed; a dime bag was the usual no questions asked
He waited a while; perhaps it was courtesy, home unlike any other
The street sensibility, smell of musk, rasta bound atop his ponytail
Thin as a limb, rocking that Rolling Stones tongue, red yellow tee shirt
He was America, Jamerican, black skin, wolf eyes, scar on his cheek
If silence could kill, under the light above he was razor sharp knife

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