Washington Square Park or something like that, NY

hairy mexico men waiting on doorsteps pidiendo pesos and besos the trash smell coming from all around these iron spears shot in the ground and burrowed into hallowed out and customized dusty mites spider flies gossip swarms smoke streak through cracked streets polished pavement stones. Heat and people, stampedes small quarters - sad people, emotionless musicians in a park, a saxophonist, a bassist, a drummer beating with the intensity of Cassidy tossing his heaving hammer over and over and over - he never misses - almost too ferocious as if he'd murder an interruptor - channeling his mind's frantic energy into his drums trying to bring them to life - beat them to life, like tin hearts and hide heads pulsing breathing teething and they are alive! As long as he beats the air through them drum man lives in a fashion. What thoughts does a drum monster ponder? Faster, louder, faster! Other musicians in the square have stopped playing now, they think to themselves it's because they are tired and the heat is in them, but it is really this drum man monster's playing shrieking. They can't ignore it. Even the people next to it who once thought they would play along rest their steel blown tools at their sides. Eveyone is buzzing to drum man monster with sweat shooting down the sides and sunlight pushing hard rough on everyone tapping their feet swaying their fucking bottoms to the beat if they're less uptight winding up and over midsummer minds humming drumming with tribalness blindly dressed dramas exploding sublime freedoms to float in I fly over molten rows of moaning bones black and choke with the dying symbol's woeful crash ho! the drum monster's last death knell, for Jack is tired and takes a sip of water before packing up the kit.