b.z. niditch | new york sixties


Andy Warhol’s Factory
opens its gates
I’m underground
with expressionists
from the Cedar Bar
sheltered from wisecracks
on the last MTA train
a four seasoned guy
thin skinned
playing jazz violin
on a sleeper car
with a sturm and drang
runaway history
on my never
delinquent fingers
stirring up arpeggios
and urchin trouble
needing to get to
Ellis island
to wave to some relative
out of the Alps
with no marks
except on his body
an exile like everyone else
who will see
the ormolu sunrise
and show me his abstracts
and play the Bach
double violin concerto

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