“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.