From the LES 1992
She is anxious, afraid,
doesn’t belong on the streets and is
wondering where she is going to sleep.
She does not realize she has fallen off the world.
He knows the exact count on the cans
and the line from last time he went to the track.
Once he had the eye.
She is veins and nicotine, lipsticked,
tricking, seeking contact in a passed by pool of light.
Tattooed and tough, knows the hood, knows the scores
knows everybody in the night They call out “Hey chino.”
One foot ahead of the other
to work and church and home to his wife
At night they play the songs from when they were young.
He yells at the kids cause they aint gonna turn out right.
For Khusenaton Shu Amon
That jazz the sweet tone of fluting coming down the street as the windows break into memories into the night fog
penetrating the dark like baseheads hit the pipe.
The mouths are tuned nomads, throwing cascades of dreaming,
what cuts it more than that tone’s call out of night,
reflecting off pieces of junked cars,
breaking that desperate in the night of the tuned streets,
and the hit high flutes and quicker than any but you
smile into bird, they are turning.
They come like whispers; they fix it like windows with no glass, they're open as cobwebs, their fibers glint in the light,
but let them call hot as the guard in the bright of song
The moans, the sorrow.
break out the lamp, enter the fiery roof, then on fingers of silver, flute and tone play your name.