“What absurdity. There is not one novel of America. There are a thousand Americas. Big Business is only one of its inhuman, monstrous products. But jazz is the expression of America’s romantic self, its sensual potency, its lyrical force. Big Business and Politics are twins, they are the monsters who kill everything, corrupt everything. Why not pay attention to the artists who humanize, keep the source of feeling alive, keep hope alive?” – Anais Nin, Winter, 1956
On the street corner
where Main meets
wherever,
a thin man in a beret,
holding a briefcase,
standing in front of a mounted
American flag,
barking through a megaphone–
Souls
bought and sold
souls bought and sold
here—
while three blocks down,
in a nameless alley,
the sound
and fury
of a squealing sax,
eliciting lore
from a calling
measureless in its purge.
