Transfer

The Mint was my 21st birthday gift. Still fresh. Check the date.

I tell him every time I see him; I tell me he sees.

I know Black, I know soul humor, mimicry.

I don’t know those depths but, damn — if I can’t bring mine up to the same level.

My rented Slumerican Dreamsicle if lime; chain fence; hoop’s broken ’cause my lightest brother jumped too hard.

Step time five minutes/count two hundred or so, to the route that came hourly, earning its full right to broadcast my city to the city-in-between.

Where she could’ve been more than a visitor, he (an un-famous one) less than a three-year lessee.

That same Sony tape hiss from the entryway, watching me and the man that disappeared

Layered over true obscurity, not that Numero silver platter shit.

From whence ‘ye came and went, I can no longer care.

Anyways I need a new cult image to project.

Speaks to me — thick calved golden-brown of 21 revolutions — says it’s never going to be alright, so keep trying.

Thanks big, I’ll assume the position on all fours since I got them.

Imagine you’re my little who’ll realize the same about a year later; who learns through osmosis?

Growing, cadet blue from the same touch, if only for a second.