when some farm dented insomnia circlers
assembled holed-toed and delighted,
these stupidified unloaded camera fakers
one day decided to smack through the chicken wire
and merely found a possible globe laid out next door
"where’s this place called flight?",
a screaming Arabian chess doctor noticed,
and while refusing sincere jazz musicians at his door,
he cowering at home between nosebleeds,
packing fiberglass into his frightened cigarettes butts
so listen Abdullah, a trial will begin soon.
and the defendants will be the judges.
and the jury will read about the verdict from the lips of the executioner
while somewhere in the courtroom cool salty air hums on,
and the rest of us stand straight up spitting fire.
so what Ocean you talking bout?
NYC 1969