Let’s start with a formal portrait of a young man who calls himself Odz Nens. He has set up his typewriter and chair near Boston’s Frog Pond.
He creates poems for passersby on any subject of their choosing. Currently his entire income comes from this endeavor.
He’s a gentle, pensive guy. He told me many cities have street poets. Boston has a few. New Orleans has the most.
I asked him for a poem about street photography.
what eye wants. I’d like to say the story’s on the street,
though I’ve turned down
many a blind alley.
Industry anoints the street with oil.
anoints the street with
a halo unseen.
When the puddles froze over
in New Orleans
passersby took pictures
as if they were the moon.