This ’hood’s vast and I’m its chief sentinel, a natural born horn. I’m a clarion nation, the itch in heaven’s evening clothes. Where I’m from ain’t no “my bad”— I am bad: That’s truth. So pony up, falsettoed crotch-grabbers, you whistling wannabes, and listen to what’s real: I don’t have to touch it to know that it’s there.
This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.
