An auto dictated poem from the plaza in Marrakesh Morocco.

Neon orange hype, Marrakesh

By Jedidiah

Cats laying on motorbikes,

cats growing out of small holes in the ground.

The look of a puddle

come in for the food,

this weekend over concrete.

The open space

where it all can happen.

A woman who’s become small in her age

so much so that she almost fits

in one silk scarf.

Walks by the puddle.

You’re as fast as the setting,

the sun comes on the puddle.

A land where…

Little French bars,

throw plastic cobras…

and middle aged Moroccan men,

Kick cobras.

Could try to put them around your shoulder.

Oh, moves with a rattle its hot.

And a banjo.

Excuse me, sir.

Excuse me, sir.

Try this juice.

Excuse me, miss.

Excuse me, miss.

May I try your braces?

May I try your braces?

My food, my face, to my teeth.

Like things, guys,

can I gain their wrists,

and banging their sands,

banging, banging, banging, banging, banging.

Yo, got money.

Get it.

That’s it.

Oh, I can do this, son.

Be welcome.

Welcome to the zone.

Be welcome.

Pull it down under a mosque.

Pull it down.

In a camel caravan.

This is the land of…

dudes casually dressing like wizards.

Motors, scooters, and…

mopeds driven on cobblestone,

where a guy can wear a leather jacket

and play a banjo.

And all in the coins.

Colling the coins.

Colling the coins.

Believe the hype, Marrakesh.

Give it to a monkey.

The first belly dancers have seen

in all of Morocco,

fully burkered,

all the way deep.

Where men…

I was reminded,

‘cause I was just checked out,

as I’m making my way

to the sunset palms

under the mosque.

Oh, yeah.

Getting stung.

With a head rattling head.

Bring it in deep.

Bring it in deep.

Oh, my God, nice.

What a place.

Excuse me.

Give it up.

Excuse me.

Give it up.

Give it up, blood, the trash.

Give it up, like trash.

In a corner by the rubble.

That somehow gets cleaned.

Between 3:00 a.m. and 9:00.

Take a walk into the dusk.

Feel the song.

Be present on the mosque.

Like a blown out speaker.

that everybody uses.

Singing God,

sounds better, distorted.

Green carriages.

The prance of a horse.

Oh, construction site.

Oh, little motorcycles…

Oh, World War II, fighter helmets as motorcycle, gear.

Oh, families walking away from the market

with cool, new leather bags.

Oh, my first red hot chili pepper shirt.

enters the market.

Oh, it comes in galloping eucalyptus.

Oh, it comes in vortex of piss smell.

Oh, it comes in…

star shape…

boomerang.

Fresh words.

Uh, new T shirt.

What do you want?

What do you want?

We got it.

We got it.

Wow, this snake charmer boy got bit.

And the oldest snack driver

is rubbing his ear with Kleenex.

Seems like it’ll be all right,

but everybody’s just kind of looking at him.

And touching his ear.