in a New York
rock critic’s anthology,
and when I saw them,
I was spooked,
then intrigued,
then amused.
His was a voice
bigger than
his hair,
with a rock star persona
that verged on self-parody
and a NooYawk accent
that belied his literary wit.
Predictably,
that didn’t last long.
Years later, he materialized
as Buster
channeling the soul of Charles Brown
and the showbiz of Al Jolson
at New York Tramps’
as Ethnomusicologist-in-Residence.
He was witty, suave
artistically unpredictable,
and ultimately confident:
everything I wanted to be.
After he and the World tired
of “Hot Hot Hot”,
he took on different guises,
and he’s presently
settled back with that group
from long ago,
sans the drug abuse and
youthful idiocy.
Never mind what the
rock history books say:
this is his prime.
He’s still my epitome of cool,
always been,
always will be.
Thanks, David,
then Buster,
then David again.
David,
Then David Again.
(Submitted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Shay Caroline edition, http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com/2012/06/fireblossom-friday-get-famous.html)