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Another dead man is playing cards
drooling suitcase.
"My three wishes," he states, "had never asked
for the jack of diamonds."
A twenty lost.

"I'll give you a quarter between the
sheets," says Ben finally, "so I'll see
you tonight then? Smashing, so long!"

And then there's me; walking along
eleventh avenue. She runs by and
her smile is delicious. Long
black hair and gorgeous aura.
Is this now my white t-bird?
She's running by somewhere in
this town wearing white shirts,
but there's no Wolfman that can
help me now.

It was the previous night which
Ben lit up after writing another stanza.
He sits there now awaiting my arrival.
The time will come when we'll be one,
but he's given me that time to contemplate
my final decision. Tonight, I think,
he'll be going to some jazz show with
a friend of his. I can hear
the trumpet solo through his eyes.
Bop bop bop, the ear's official
orgasm sponsored by Lateef and
Gillespie. I wish I could really be
there with life's hand in mine.

Another dead man is getting drunk
striking matches.
"My three wishes," he states, "had never asked
for a life all alone."
A twenty lost.

In the mean time she runs by in
my mind with that smile. She looked
right at me, passing on the right for good
luck. She's become my virus with
only one glance! I can't take this
stanza. Gulp. Flash. Inhale.

As well as a virus, Ben and
I infest. Our host is breaking
down in chaos. I wonder sometimes
if we need interfere at all. (And
that is a thought which can work
both ways. It's how we prevail I
think). It's like Mike Ladd. We like
Mike Ladd. We are his
Infesticons: Poetic Branch Americana.
We use telepathy in words and
music, especially tonight with the club
and all.

The band is queued, I hear them
now. My God it's wonderful, and
explosive. Bop bop bop is the ear's official
orgasm sponsored by Lateef and
Gillespie. All those people, there, wearing
their own pants, they get into it truthfully
snapping. Their eyes don't blink, and
as well don't their ears. As well
as a virus, the rhythm lives
to destroy all convention especially,
as Davis and Parker walk in from Clarksdale.

Another dead man is playing bass
slap progression.
"My three wishes," he states, "had never asked
for the note on fret six."
A twenty lost.

All these people, here, want
my pants. Not to get inside
of them, fortunately, but just
to wear them, and be cool,
getting the girls, and taking them off
again in the end. I wouldn't give
one stitch or strand of hair
to walk in their shoes,
even if they were going to Clarksdale.

A patron asks Ben for a
cigarette. The kid's first drag tastes like
aunt Jemima and pancakes. He's hooked
for life (and death). "You'll want to wish
for some water and a place to
sit," advises Ben. The kid looks puzzled,
and dizzy, then wishes, and sits.

She's still running by so fast
in slow-motion. That smile
would wage a poetic war which
could bring the entire universe down
to its knees be given the chance.
Everybody's pen would fall out
of their shoe, and the
musicianship of humanity
would be enough to entertain. Bop bop bop,
would be the ear's official orgasm
sponsored by Lardmartyr and Gaucher,
with the voice of Lateef and Gillespie.

The time will come when we'll become one.
The four of us in love of loving while receiving
much. Our hearts will become
limousines with tinted windows rolled
down. Running, singing, wishing, and listening,
with life's hand in ours.

Another dead man is drawing blanks
painting pictures.
"My three wishes," he states, "had never asked
for anything more than what I've got."
A million gained.