*For Chan, That Archaic Poet, who ROCKS ... boats, minds and THE HOUSE of POETRY!
I hearby dub thee, Chan, not so archaic, But truly, at heart, NEW-DALI.
The Busker Festival of Waterloo is like a circus that takes over the uptown.
Buskers are street performers who make a living off of their talents. Some climb
poles and balance on one hand, some paint themselves silver, turn into an
Elvis-trophy (No. I'm not making this up.) Some are even do synchronized
POGO ATHLETICS, (coolest thing, EVER.)
I could so easily see Chan here...
... And that Music Box Dancer... so sweet you could eat her with a spoon,
as lovely as a dream ...
LOVE AND HUGS
and post notes and photos about your poem.
Surreal, the way a contortionist knots
himself as the escape artist breaks free.
Uptown, buskers beckon with what-naughts,
drawing thousands. Candyland, sighs New-Dali
at its epicenter, his true element,
and he takes it in: the sword swallower,
blindfolds, jugglers, clowns miming laments,
fire-fed gals, stilted-men and tots taller
on shoulders. This carnival can endear,
turn heads, but only one with a seer-heart
studies the music box dancer, then swears
that she spins perfect webs with street-smarts.
Mirroring that swivel, awed by his entourage,
He becomes centrum to his own collage.