gasoline drippin off ceiling walls

car factory stalls,

SanFranCity holed up for Bird Diz Monk

to blow them freeways

clean straight away...

then white hatter fatter cat corner rap:

“yo, hear the word,

me give you some serious address to a rent party, man,

open holed...”

“nah, cant stoop that smatter, man,

smolderin the hoopla, friend,

bebop's on the wake,

insomnia fake,

call me collect later become a dime miracle,

meanwhile whiff this stuff growin off the trees

highgraded for that magic puff…”

so now through the fog

we see a figure comin,

Max Cosmic Roach Señor Drummer,

starter finisher of the arcane mystical wonder!

(as a Bird melody deliciously plays down the street, totally ”Out of Nowhere”...)

and diggin this fortuitously brash soundtrack,

Dizzy’s girl cries out into the splattered night for a new side

that no bass player, cept maybe Mingus,

can elevate the box lid over,

shoot riffs down at the shrouded Dr Dark,

whisperin Lowellspeak neath the rusted rails,

beggin the question: “hey, when does the chorus come back round, man?”

and further up stairs, seekin wrong directions-

no seek-

perfumed Billy's lost too,

or is it me, Mr Wanderer w/ cowboy suede boots unzipped,

fixin up flat line red dragons

wastin away another ole time Milwaukee Rose,

zoop de see…

aaah!

meanwhile, just then,

we get an inklin for performance without some house band,

as goodnight players plentiful

come parachutin outta trees…

so boys, why not semibreve rest a bit between blows?

snap, then sip somemore

pickin up that uncommon accent

stretchin out them sidewalks further one more time,

so’s the jutterbug boot hustlers may unhook these dumpsters for certain,

so's those Castro St comers

may sincerely surrender their stash for lost,

like take a dive, man,

exactly gone, man,

Salt Peanuts forever, man!

9/21/73