is music    is men

off early from work    is waiting

for the chance at the chair

while the eagle claws holes

in your pockets    keeping

time    by the turning

of rusty fans    steel flowers with

cold breezes    is having nothing

better to do    than guess at the years

of hair    matted beneath the soiled caps

of drunks    the pain of running

a fisted comb through stubborn

knots    is the dark dirty low

down blues    the tender heads

of sons fresh from cornrows    all

wonder at losing    half their height

is a mother gathering hair    for good

luck    for a soft wig    is the round

difficulty of ears    the peach

faced boys asking Eddie

to cut in parts and arrows

wanting to have their names read

for just a few days    and among thin

jazz    is the quick brush of a done

head    the black flood around

your feet    grandfathers

stopping their games of ivory

dominoes    just before they reach the bone

yard    is winking widowers announcing

and hair only gets in the way    is the final

spin of the chair    a reflection of

a reflection    that sting of wintergreen

tonic    on the neck of a sleeping snow

haired man    when you realize it is

your turn    you are next

to hang your head

on my wall

in shame—

the slightest taxidermy

thrills me. Fish

forever leaping

on the living-room wall—

paperweights made

from skulls

of small animals.

I want to wear

your smile on my sleeve

& break

your heart like a horse

or its leg. Weeks of being

bucked off, then

all at once, you're mine—

Put me down.

I want to call you thine

to tattoo mercy

along my knuckles. I assassin

I hope

to have you forgotten

by noon. To know you

by your knees

palsied by prayer.

Loneliness is a science—

consider the taxidermist's

tender hands

trying to keep from losing

skin, the bobcat grin

of the living.

I want to be doused

in cheese

& fried. I want

to wander

the aisles, my heart's

supermarket stocked high

as cholesterol. I want to die

wearing a sweatsuit—

I want to live

forever in a Christmas sweater,

a teddy bear nursing

off the front. I want to write

a check in the express lane.

I want to scrape

my driveway clean

myself, early, before

anyone's awake—

that'll put em to shame—

I want to see what the sun

sees before it tells

the snow to go. I want to be

the only black person I know.

I want to throw

out my back & not

complain about it.

I wanta drive

two blocks. Why walk—

I want love, n stuff—

I want to cut

my sutures myself.

I want to jog

down to the river

& make it my bed—

I want to walk

its muddy banks

& make me a withdrawal.

I tried jumping in,

found it frozen—

I'll go home, I guess,

to my rooms where the moon

changes & shines

like television.