New Maxwell Street Market, April, 25, 1999

by Steve Balkin <mar@interaccess.com>


An old mostly toothless man

playing violin

and singing

with a three piece mariachi band.

The huge acoustic bass-guitar

knocking out the bump beat. With

the wrinkles of Mexico

in their faces

and soulful sounds.

++

The vendor from Ghana.

Selling men's underwear and stuff

"Hello my brother."

"Hello my sister."

A hug and a welcome.

She studied music in Africa.

From her church, there and here.

Wants to know about Blues.

Has a cure for high blood pressure.

Wants to know what to do.

She gave me free jockey shorts

for my birthday, last month.

++

A group from Peru,

bamboo pan flutes and mics.

Headsets. A big drum.

Speakers galore. Costumes, CDs.

Rhythm-pushing melodies.

First and Third worlds.

++

Oh those steak tacos.

Grilled lean in outside air.

With red sauce this time.

Tutti fruity soda,

snap the cap,

and drink from the bottle.

Elotes with mayo,

cheese, magarine, and lime.

Tamales not mild,

but tasty

and hot.

++

Peanut sampling.

Looking for chrunch,

no salt too.

Big nuts in the shell;

not the little ones.

Eureka, after only three vendors.

++

A black cowboy

with saddlebags,

over his shoulder

What's he doing here?

Visiting

friends.

I'm Stanley.

From the Black rodeo circuit.

Dad was Renald

from New

Orleans,

Sold with him at the old Maxwell market.

Lots of stories to tell.

"Are you going to put me

in your magazine."

++

I saw this gray beard

great for some snaps.

Like a House of David man.

It was old Pete the Prophet.

Its all in the Word,

says this born again preacher.

Selling antiques. Talking bout life,

and death,

and divorce,

and God.

"At the end, that's all you'll have:

what you've told them

about Me."

God talks to Pete

all the time.


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