THE STREET MIME

 

THE STREET MIME

 

They stand still, move a little when someone stares, then point to the tip can.

 

How grotesque should I get to get noticed as a busker?

An earlier mask was that of an Oscar statue, gold, de oro.
Yes, I was naked, except for a fig leaf on my privates.
Standing ramrod straight like the stroked movie award,
I can’t even get rowdy sistahs to scream libidinal cusses,
Nor the crotch-scratching, repositioning, baggy-pants
Brodahs to giggle at my golden balls and golden tool.

Have been doing this before Hollywood sent Britney

To bare her derriere at salivating dotards on front row.
But where is the silver change, the crumpled bills?
I regret leaving Oaxaca’s fishing village, but fishing
Is not a man’s job. It is a lazy act. Miming here is art.
Haven’t I sent my boys through school with this work?
I will stand still here and listen to the can’s clunking.

Maybe tomorrow, I will put on a wig, and put on a garb

Much like that of Jesucristo, a glowing heart on my chest
And mime a gentle smile on my lips, two fingers raised
In an act of blessing scuttling tourists in the Name
Of my Father, in my Name, and in the Holy Ghost’s.
Maybe someone will notice me then, as a stolen statue
From the Cathedral behind the 24-hour brothel in Reno.

---Albert B. Casuga

04-07-14, The Strip, Las Vegas, Nevada