Allow wings to stretch, like the doors
of a Cinnamon-skinned Ford Explorer
cruising through the late 90s. Dad
used to crisscross state lines, while
I used to catch snoozes in the back
seat, listening to Jeffrey Osborne
croon some Soul for the road. Hustle
had me sick. Future had me lit.
The present chaffed my skin, but
I snaked through wilderness. Now,
I see life skip and clack, like the
tiny, plastic panels on the sides
of worn dice, crashing against gray
stoops. Loaded, maybe. Either way,
I drink the perfect blend, wondering
why sin collects the most respect
and reward. Let it enter my blood-
stream and stimulate my heart.
Capitalism’s jagged teeth shred
dreams. Call it progress (or polite
decay). News headlines buzz.
Genocide continues. Gaza. Sudan.
Bombs fall and US taxpayers flash
grins and twerk for tax cuts and
immigration policies. I strum an
internal guitar, riffing for tomorrow,
like peaceful resolutions don’t exist.
The planet spins. Time flies. Grit
finds a place to sharpen his blade.
My Afro leans against the metallic
breath of country, forcing Crooked
Culture to tell an entirely different story.
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