Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on email
Share on whatsapp

I have too much good in me to want the police officer’s gun but I imagine becoming my visions and then again what good would that do and then again why do I have to be good?

ARS POETICA V

I never obsess over words but fade caught me up in its’ elasticity. Style and Instruction. I told a barber “fade!” and he two-toned me. I was too scared to ask if it could be reversed. Butchered head rising from a swirling black cape, I said “fade”, a soft prayer, anointing the shame with illusion

~

(My hair, the only reliable pretty. The only part of my body I let someone else groom)

~

I remember the first time it worked. A dense cloud of curls transforming slowly into naked skin. A perfect gradient. On me. Perfect, on me

~

The air outside of the barbershop is contaminated, life happens: heat, water, sweat boiling, sleeping disheveled, rushing without greasing or brushing will inevitably collapse the dream. A model of symmetry transforming quickly into a whuffin’ shadow. All scruffy around the edges of corners, coming undone at the seam of pattern

~

Happiness never stays how you want it framed. One time I said I would pretend racism didn’t exist; just threw the notion in the air like glitter and saw shiny squares of film curl into hard pellets. Felt like my mom pinching my skin to straighten my spine.

~

I saw another video while trying to make the best of America.

~

I have too much good in me to want the police officer’s gun but I imagine becoming my visions and then again what good would that do and then again why do I have to be good?

~

It’s this thing I have with being right, vacillating between wanting to win and wanting justice. I have to manage what revolution means. I think sometimes I confuse it with fantastical anger streaking blood

~

It must come from always feeling weight, compressed down so far I disappear
inside color

Share on facebook
Share on twitter
Share on email