Afro Man and the Astor Beat-Maker Afro Man has a tall frame,
it is not just the hairily added inches
that make him so stately,
a muscular bob in his head
and sway in his shoulders
as he walks with command
through crowds at bay of streetlights,
looking back only to spot a fine specimen of femininity,
or apologize to a New Yorker he just sifted through
as he makes his way
to Astor Place
and jumps into the K-Mart,
at which point I stop following,
and my attention is drawn across the street
beside the entrance to the Astor Place subway station
where there lies an arsenal of percussion;
discarded pans
overturned empty paint cans
plastic containers
assorted beat-makin' remainders,
and the man with the wooden sticks
bangs each in rhythmic passion
beats resound that bounce
even more than his dreadlocks do,
that’s what it’s all about for him, now.

a true sage,
an artist for the people
this is democracy
this is philosophy,
heed to be taken,
follow your passion
it’s a rational thing to do
if we all did it, stopped fakin’
the world would be true.

So on that note,
I'll retire to my wasteland
, yes, I found a happy spot today,
A wasteland, it is,
just down of Cooper Triangle
East 6 street
trapped between Bowery sidewalks,
a triangle block to aid pedestrians in crossing,
25 feet in length,
more or less isosceles in manner,
a lonely tree hardly taller than me in the middle,
surrounded by scraggly grass,
a blackened bush,
yellow newspaper ads,
discarded bottle of Vitamin Water
and a “keep left” sign,

watch traffic come at me while I write,
the pedestrians chuckle “nice spot",
bicyclists smile blankly
bus passengers on high stare down in wonder,
how I love to invoke
curiosity.