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On a Los Angeles street - play it brother, ladle it on black delirium
         A wind blows – from trumpets, oboes, and saxophones
                  Gather dust at his feet – the orchestral pit in epiphany
                          Bringing devotees – to his cello courting evening with rhapsodies
                                   Into the shrine of memory – feed here my soul on this ambrosia
                                          His life reads like an old newspaper – subliming grief
                                                    Now
He is a documentary of a news magazine 
A new beginning for fallen grace
A Lopez like Jesus
Making us see
The slant
Of worth
In
Today’s society. 
                          Poet’s who never knew he existed
                          Will from his past all twisted
                          Write him like a song to play
                          They will ignore the smell of his rags and say
                          His music breathes a fresh fragrance of air
        On rancid fortunes of Julliard. Hear the street Beethoven’s ode of joy.
I am not his poet, I am his griot
      Writing better than his Julliard days
          Better than an interlude at Pershing Square
               For if he had done nothing else but dream
                   He would still be one of us
                        Another diamond neglected in the dust
     Before his dreams became an idiot
                                 Wandered away from desire’s puppetry
                                      And strings raking our desire
                                          He is always minstrel and celebrant
                                                And by his touch bassoon and fiddle pants
                                                     Sweet syllables of delicious relevance                  
Dethroning traditions in octaves and scales
Not meant to swim the uneven stream
Of unmeasured waves of sorrow
Splintering minds of ebony
Into stringless discords 
Of sharp broken
Litanies.
                 Each feathery note fluttering against the heart
                    Of the city, a fragment of evening traffic
                        Heard my maestro and was dumb with surprise
                           That genius could wear such a ragged disguise
                                Itinerant vagabond and vessel of all our despair
                                           This Beethoven of the street, Mr. Nathaniel Ayers.
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