Originally published online in Sea Foam Mag, July 2016
‘Is that the 1995 Final Four?’ Naw, that’s Inglorious Basterds. New rap name: fauxwoodmarcus. RNN: real nigga number. All ghetto passes should have an identifying RNN, to keep track of membership. To gather my thoughts before leaving I kick around a stool w/ my foot. The legs are silver & drop straight down curving into a 90 degree angle looping around conjoining into a blocky C. I kick it onto its side & rest my knees sorta uncomfortably on it, rocking back/forth. Sky filters everything a metallicy rapidwater blue. Can’t go down stairs slowly w/ these young ankles. I think I move pretty fluidly eeem though it borders carelessly loose. I know the way my body wants to move & I listen to it. I’m tryna get the message out to FREE HIM to the chiir’n. 2/3: I notice I always have to be holding an extremity, whether it’s each hand holding one another or my left hand grippin my lower left thigh w/ my right leg draped over. Holding my wrist or whippin the yams. Anxiety fleeing my body. Get that shit outta my house. Some IPAs taste like dirt or soap & I fw that. Thought about my relationship w/ going out. Naked in my room after getting caught in rain. It was awful until it resembled an endurance-testing obstacle course. You’re gonna have to hold some Ls either way so accept it. But I weave thoo umbrella’d people under awnings, dodge dripping streams & single self-conscious droplets under scaffolding, considering swinging from corroded beam to beam like monkey bars. My body’s not muscular or cut but if you study its gesticulations I think it proves we have a loving & affectionate relationship.