Poetry Killed The Man

He was born Murray Wachs

In Queens in 1924.

He claims that he wrote music

But he showed up at every open mike

Every poetry reading

On the Lower East Side

And East Village...

Downtown Manhattan

For that matter.

Christ’s sake.

He was there and toothless

Ranting and raving.

A lunatic extraordinaire.

He was a postal worker by trade.

Ring a bell anyone?

What is it about the postal industry

That makes people go ballistic

Or write poetry?

Bukowski was genious for sure

But Bingo Gazingo flew under the radar

He was on the fringe.

He wrote and performed tirades like:

‘Psycho’

‘I’m A Wabbit’

‘Oh Madonna You Stole My Pants’

‘J-Lo’

‘Think With Your Dipstick, Jimmy’

‘I Love You So Fucking Much I Can’t Shit’.

He sang/read his poetry

In parks and subway stations.

He read at the Bowery Poetry Club

Every Monday night.

He was dressed in a cheap, wrinkled suit

A la Marx Brothers

Carrying his tattered pages of lyrics or poems.

Pages upon pages

Of hand scrawled

Penmanship.

He would scream, shout and moan

Like Yoko Ono

As he was taken...

Possessed

By his art.

Bingo Gazingo is dead!

Dead I tell you.

Like you even give a shit

Or know who the hell I’m talking about.

He was an outsider.

He was brilliant.

He was insane.

He was hit by a cab

On his way

To his weekly pilgrimage

To the Monday Night reading

At the Bowery Poetry Club.

Bingo Gazingo died

On his way to read poetry.

Bingo...

God Bless

Your spirit.

You were a codgey old talented fuck.