Hanging In The Bowery

Hanging in the Bowery with an intelligent hobo Told him about my next gig in a groovy loft in Soho I invited him to enjoy my Jazz Quartet's performance Not worrying whether he caused a raucous or disturbance I needed his humor for my improvisational skim His smile was precious though his immediate future looked dim. Dreamed away his misery with an approach which wasn't feeble Looking through a haystack for his direction without a needle Sacrificed acceptance for his freedom of thought and movement Not adhering to the process of brainwash or etiquette improvement Wore his colorful loudness with an oblique bullhorn madness Screaming dissonant phrases to express his utter gladness The men with the fishnet were lurking with a straight jacket Waiting to pounce on him sideways without a sound or racket However he always sensed their whereabouts and would jolt from their grasp never paranoid of some outrageous revolt. His philosophic modus operandi they did not comprehend As he fidgeted with his nose looking downward not to condescend Separated from the masses as an individualistic personality Proud of his demeanor untouched by this mundane insanity Trumpeting his fanfare of a chosen conscious existence Never annoying his neighbor though shining with persistence Gleaming with optimistic fantasies painted on the wall Waiting for the heavens to witness his beckoning call Devoid of the directionless chaos around him everyday Shooting off his flares which boomerang and ricochet Pleasant streams of meditative innuendos he does portray to sooth the ravage beast with dandelions in a bouquet. Hearing the sighs of whales while losing their communication Singing their lonesome melodies to all their lost relation Identifying with the paupers who chose their own departure Transcending through materialism to embrace Mother Nature Springing are the elves amongst the fairies and the imps Trilling with Rumpelstiltskin as our hobo takes a glimpse at the silly world around him quite shyly and demure. Soon to be outraged with the immaculate and impeccably pure Exploding with a burst of unexpected irrationality To stir the boredom and create a new-fangled reality Rolling a cigar with the finest herb and schrooms Flying through his third eye to a land of peacock's plumes Left his earthly troubles and landed in a celestial palace free of perpetrators of unfriendliness, negativity and malice. Maladjusted in the eyes of an analytic pretentious quack Heaving his foot in the direction of his proverbial sacroiliac Scoffing at his theorems of his lack of banal normality Our hobo enjoyed my conversations over inborn musicality Chanting a blues with his soul overflowing with rapture Making the blondes all blush as their attention he did capture Looking into his face one could see his disconnection An idiom for the angels lost in his godly perfection.