THE BLUES MANIA KID
The blues mania kid
has been duly noted
by one jazz critic
and the cops
in their police reports
who hang out
in the Village
eager to interrogate
the kid around town
with a jazz violin
who reads Hegel
and Rimbaud all night
hiding out
all winter nights
in the conservatory’s
sound proof studios
thanks to the janitor
who plays drums
and sits for Warhol
in the nude,
some nights
letting the kid sleep
for free
near the Factory
until the Cedar bar
opens as O’Hara
and new expressionists
offer some bread
to the runaway kid
always with his violin
locked in its case
waiting only for rosin
to gloss over fretted
A.E.D.G. strings,
wishing only to score
the most beat riffs
in this funky town
arranging to pick up
anything hip
for his open pocket,
he writes graffiti
on the cold city walls
a sailor hands him
a few greenbacks
to have a meal
to take home with him
whenever he finds
an open door.