b.z. niditch | hearing money jungle


Hearing only
“Money Jungle”
and Mingus
in his bandaged head
from a bar fight
over his own his sax
now in his saddlebags
pawned and zipped
for a long memory,
like the vericose veins
by the beachcomber
who found this poet
on North Beach
by a weary waterfront
looking for dimes
with a crazy
geiger counter
at the break of day
still a ringing
in his educated head
at the drowsy dawn
from the shore’s edge
his red eyes
disperse a token
of tears and years
this morning
by the tall dunes
wanting the hide
before a breakfast
his colorless face
like the bleeding
naked gull
in mirrors of the sky
of contrasting absentia
want to believe
he will play again.

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