(re-demonstrating how not to stash money your first day of busking in broad daylight)
164. October 15, 2010 (fri. rain’d out buskin’ lead to Brookline flyering/debauchery)
Desire is matched by
The distant rhythm
Telegraph the breast
This tasteless catechism
An anxious calm
There will be no copper jingling
As it tumbles out of hat, hair
Loosened into small change
Twisters as our tips rain onto
Boutineer, bound breast, sidewalk
Stage too damp in this Oh, Boston
Storm means roaming Friday night
In flapper cape, in character to flyer
Flaunt kamikaze song at the Jewish
Neighbourhood’s sex shoppe?
Let me regale you with linen napkins
And kugel samplers- delicate deli
Inappropriacy in ascots & bowlers:
Nearby hospice patron
Speaking at a Friday night volume
In a rather rowdy restaurant
We normally love the place
But it’s just TOO LOUD tonight
Repeated to waiter, manager, busboy
Until we finally notice
Their untouched soup and wine
(If we’d been fastier ruffians
We’d have pounded it and toasted
Them L’Chaim! on their way out)
You can’t kick Semitic gem’d gesticulations
And youthful jazz hands out of a booth
For being queer(ly dressed) and bubbly as greps
Water, giggling animatedly ‘bout fisting
In cartoon voices vaudeville bespeaks
Folks rather spiffed up, you can’t point us out
As those rough lookin’ teens with silver topped canes
Lesbros in chimney spout tophats! The one with
The nose ring and monocle! Tattoos and cuff links!
It’s how the boisterous/bourgeoise
Get away with any everything
Isn’t it? Starched & collar’d delinquents
Matzo ball robber barons
Of your calm soup and crackers evening
Paying customers as pretty as we
“Get away with” enjoying ourselves, entertaining
Anyone warm-blooded as bouillon broth
