Banjosushi Collage : Union Square Park, NYC

Lunch in the big city and I have a mini-bottle of Henessey. Craned neck and a spittoon of a fountain at Union Square where the tomatoes are passed down from generation to generation and arrive at the farmer's market for 5 dollars apiece. Some guy in green iron on a horse up high. Tom Waits in the right ear and the sound of buzz. The buzzing sound of street traffic and mumbled conversation. Last cigarette smoked. Baby gobbling an orange passing by on a stroller. Umbrellas, tents and tree shade. Where is everyone going? Some to work. Some have found a bed on a bench.

Subway woman exits with flowers to deliver. Old wrinkled woman, grey short hair, striking a jagged pose, speaks with jagged words of age. And I in this isolated inlet, not drunk enough to go careening in the street with my typing fingers. Also not drunk enough to take the leftover sushi Whole Foods has left on the edge of the trash. There are scroungier people who need it.

Everyone looking, buying , eating. Bags handed and hanging from wrists. Brown leather slippers. White rubber slippers, and the sun finds its way through my tree. Big red bag with more sushi. If she leaves some on the edge of the trash, then fuck it, I am going for it.

And what are we selling? Baguettes? Honey? Comics and books? Paintings? Original and copied art? Photos of skyscrapers and black and white antiques?

A big blue scarf covering up cleavage. A pity.

Hunchbacked, headphoned gremlin rummaging through bag, squinting into the infinity of his bag, struggling with the zipper function of his eternal bag.

Provocative pigeons and forward squirrels.

She eats her sushi with chopsticks, speckled, Dalmatian-shirted, sitting on the steps of this spittoon of a fountain. Blue-green-grey metal walkway. Trees are pure green of trees.

Hand-made hugging salt shakers?

Scrounging pigeons, raptor clawed. I know where there is some sushi if they are hip enough for it.

The hunchback changes his headphones for a phone. He dials with girth, holds the phone up to his large cyclops eye and shaky-dials a number for five minutes. You'll get there old fellow!

Got to keep an eye on this woman with the sushi. She's on her next package and girls have trouble finishing their meals. That's why they are the best dinner companions. Her hair is still wet, darker than her dry brown hair would be, and her Dalmatian shirt is slightly fluttering light in the breeze. But she doesn't slow down on the sushi. What a champ.

And the steady flowing stream of walking people going by hardly catches the eye for more than a second or two. So much walking cloth. I need a Snapple!

Banjo tuning. Fountain spewing. What are you doing?

"I wish I was born in the grave. My lady was a knife on the shore."

And who stands watching the stomping fellow who changed into his banjo hat not a while ago to play his banjo? Woman plucking her teeth with a plastic spoon, staring off at nothing in particular. Phones filming and people standing. Old man, tweed suit, beard white, and the string keeps breaking. Pipes next to me on a table, free if you smoke weed and are a poet, which I claim to be. And who else is watching? The Obama face of Hope pinned against the red-curtained table across. Levi's brown bag with tight jeans and a big camera standing next to him. White Sox hat, grim-staring goatee, slightly shaved, Buddy Holly glasses. Conspiring old couple, not so old, just conspiring in the corner with their nice clothes and shiny shoes. Maroon shirt, black-belted brown pants. Big sunglasses, pink shade. Mocha Latte. Broken strings, music is over. But come buy some pipes!

White shirt tattoo peaking out of the top, black on black. Somebody buy a baguette! A bagel! An Obama shirt! My god! This is a recession. Show the love.

Tall brown buildings. I will watch the pipe shop. People tsking and tasking about their day. All bunches of bags. Big gray trash bags piled by the trash can. Green breeze still blowing. DVDs, Jesus! The man laughing tears walking all by himself. Looks like he's crying. Vegetable ivory pipe head. When they say they'll be back, will they be back? FREE INK CARTRIDGES on the yellow backpack sign.

My page flutters in the wind and all the words are wiped off with trying to read them. A gang of orange-clad bikers begin their course check. Helmets orange and everything. Black bike shorts under the floral skirt, walking quick. Scarves, lettuce. Nothing happening until the banjo player gets back. Holy Moly! That thick mustache and the odd grasping lovers on the left. They should be wearing that mustache.