Legitimate James talks with his

hands, hustles in crowded whispers.

He coaxes his crowd, conjures sugar

cubes from deep pockets-

keeps the eyedropper in his sleeve. He slinks

behind fences, craving darkness, but

the sun sneaks pinstripes into his dreadlocks.

 

"It's the chemical key," he tells them,

and it fits.

 

"A getaway in your palm," as pupils swallow

eyeballs, and the verdict is 8-10 with Day-Glo

walls. Sunlight leaks through a hole in the roof,

drips drips into a bucket beneath

rusty ladder rungs. A seated Buddha,

3-D specs, four grams of K on the midnight bus

to Florida.

 

"The schnozberries taste like schnozberries!"

 

Spinners lick flower petals and babble

to guitar strings plucked by Jerry himself,

imagining themselves at Kaleidoscope-palooza

puffing reefer, Hell's Angels "keep the peace",

melodies twisting in their senses like a

magic carpet, "This music tastes delicious!"

and Legitimate James agrees.

 

He flutters about, trading doses for dimes,

pretending to control the weather.

An orchestra of lightning,

to thunderous applause, is thrust from

his fingertips, and the people come alive

with St. Elmo's Fire, a static cling to the

hippie in black.

 

They skulk like him, they sling like him,

often activated, never compensated-

but darkness can only bury so much-

even a blind man can tell when the sun is shining.

Word on the lot is: he'll get you spun.