gasoline drippin off ceiling walls

car factory stalls,

SanFranCity holed up for Bird Diz Monk & Max

blowin them freeways

clean straight away

then white hatter fatter cat corner rap:

“yo, hear the word,

me lay on you some serious rent party address, man,

open wholed...”

“nah, cant stoop that smatter, man,

smolderin the hoopla, stan,

bop's on the wake,

insomnia fake,

call me later collect

become a dime miracle,

meanwhile whiff this stuff growin off Masonic trees

highgraded for that magic puff”

…ahhh…

meanwhile some figure come dancin through the fog,

Max Cosmic Roach Señor Drummer,

starter finisher of the arcane mystical wonder

(riffin Bird melodies

serenadin the street,

positively “Out of Nowhere”)

and diggin this brash soundtrack,

Diz’s girl hums into the splattered night

that new side

that cept maybe Mingus

could pump it over the backboard,

shootin riffs down toward Jack’s shrouded Dr Dark

whisperin Lowellspeak neath rusted rails,

beggin: “hey, how many bars till

that refrain come back round, hound?”

and further up cigarette-stained stairs

seekin wrong directions-no seek-

perfumed Billy's lost too,

Miss Wanderer w/ cowboy green suede boots unzipped,

conjuring perfect performances,

as goodnight players plentiful

come parachutin outta trees

so boys, why not semibreak rest between blows

that snap, then sip,

each pickin up that uncommon accent,

stretchin further across them Bay sidewalks one more time?

so’s jutterbug heel hustlers

might unhook these dumpsters for certain,

so's those Castro St comers

might sincerely surrender their stash,

takin that dive, man,

exactly gone, man,

Salt Peanuts forever, man

9/21/73