Legitimate James talks with his
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hands, hustles in crowded whispers.
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He coaxes his crowd, conjures sugar
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cubes from deep pockets-
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keeps the eyedropper in his sleeve. He slinks
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behind fences, craving darkness, but
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the sun sneaks pinstripes into his dreadlocks.
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"It's the chemical key," he tells them,
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and it fits.
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"A getaway in your palm," as pupils swallow
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eyeballs, and the verdict is 8-10 with Day-Glo
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walls. Sunlight leaks through a hole in the roof,
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drips drips into a bucket beneath
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rusty ladder rungs. A seated Buddha,
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3-D specs, four grams of K on the midnight bus
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to Florida.
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"The schnozberries taste like schnozberries!"
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Spinners lick flower petals and babble
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to guitar strings plucked by Jerry himself,
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imagining themselves at Kaleidoscope-palooza
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puffing reefer, Hell's Angels "keep the peace",
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melodies twisting in their senses like a
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magic carpet, "This music tastes delicious!"
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and Legitimate James agrees.
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He flutters about, trading doses for dimes,
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pretending to control the weather.
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An orchestra of lightning,
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to thunderous applause, is thrust from
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his fingertips, and the people come alive
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with St. Elmo's Fire, a static cling to the
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hippie in black.
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They skulk like him, they sling like him,
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often activated, never compensated-
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but darkness can only bury so much-
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even a blind man can tell when the sun is shining.
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Word on the lot is: he'll get you spun.
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