The Birth of Shorty Bon Bon (Take #3)

The salseros, the real-live soneros,
the palo-players that gang-busted
dancehalls with fish-crate yambú;
the tumberos who recorded the earth
in clay jugs, whose steel-beam shoulders
held up skies until shing-a-ling
floors were occupied by the perfect
fourth of democracy; the quintets
that crashed baptisms and plucked
concert hall from park bench and
band shell, who glittered airwaves
without commission, who changed
their names from Joe Loco to Joe
Panama, Joe Ponce to Joe Cuban, who
Castkill'd then Corso'd, who
vamped it up and whistled evil
out of garden—their Africando
was so hot, co-op boards had to
call the police—this take is for
the cocolos who carried a nation
on their crazy, on their cool:
What you can say about Shorty
Bon Bon is that he never never
crossed the clave. He knew
it was all dirt at the end.