I've been working on a series of poems exploring my whiteboy hoods, mostly stupid shit I did as a kid growing up in the suburbs fascinated with hip-hop music and culture.
Many of these poems have become about ridiculous fashion choices I made around the odd confusions of identity. Over the next little while I plan to post some of the poems in this series. Please come back again soon and check them out... thank u- kc
Faded
the stylist at Michael Anthony Salon
has got no idea what a fresh cut is.
a step, a bowl, a bald wall
straight lined over the ears
like my head wuz a topographically diverse region n shit.
for prom i wanted to get a peace sign shaved in the back.
i went to Quick Cuts in the strip mall on Dundee Rd.
the barber was frail n divorced, dirty
blond hair, thirty somethin, her fingers smelled
like Kools. just put a restraining order
on her second husband. said she’d give it a try.
when i got home
n looked in the mirror
pac man.
a mercedes
hood ornament.
no fuckin peace.
1 comments:
it's official, i miss your voice most of all.
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