Hat review from an expert
I was walking out of a liquor store in a dark Detroit night with PBR in my hand and Emmie by my side, when a voice came from my periph.
I assumed it was a homeless man asking for spare change so I ignored the voice but still it persisted: “hey, my man! My man!”
Finally I turned and instead of a homeless man I saw a well dressed black man walking up to me. He said, “Let me just tell you I am a hat man, a hat connoisseur, and I like that hat. I like that hat!”
I laughed and just said, “Thanks, man!”
What a compliment, a hat connoisseur likes my hat!
Supply and Demand
I went to Priya for Dinner today.
There was a letter on the door that said because of the rice shortage no meals would be served with rice unless you order it seperate.
So, I ordered my Chicken Korma like usual and the waitress said, “that only comes with Nan. Is that okay?” I can’t eat Indian food without rice, so I said, “could I get some rice please.”
I eat my Chicken Korma, with rice, and then got the bill. They charged me an extra two dollars for the rice. Two Dollars!!
That would be like if we charged, say, an extra 80 cents for a waffle cone.
…wait, that’s exactly what we do.
I have driven slow,
three miles an hour or so,
through Highland Park, Heidelberg, and the
Cass Corridor.
I’ve hopped on the Michigan,
and transferred to the Woodward,
and heard the good word blaring from an
a.m. radio.
I love the worn-through tracks of trolley
trains breaking through their
concrete vaults,
As I ride the Fort Street or the Baker,
just making my way home.
I sneak through an iron gate, and fish
rock bass out of the strait,
watching the mail boat with
its tugboat gait,
hauling words I’ll never know.
The water letter carrier,
bringing prose to lonely sailors,
treading the big lakes with their trailers,
floats in blue green chopping waters,
above long-lost sunken failures,
awaiting exhumation iron whalers,
holding gold we’ll never know.
I’ve slid on Belle Isle,
and rowed inside of it for miles.
Seeing white deer running alongside
While I glide, in a canoe.
I’ve walked down Caniff holding a glass
Atlas root beer bottle in my hands
And I’ve entered closets of coney islands
early in the morning too.
I’ve taken malt from Stroh’s and Sanders,
felt the black powder of abandoned
embers,
And smelled the sawdust from wood cut
to rehabilitate the fallen edifice.
I’ve walked to the rhythm of mariachis,
down junctions and back alleys,
Breathing fresh-baked fumes of culture
nurtured of the Latin and the
Middle East.
I’ve fallen down on public ice,
and skated in my own delight,
and slid again on metal crutches
into trafficked avenues.
Three motors moved us forward,
Leaving smaller engines to wither,
the aluminum, and torpedo,
Monuments to unclaimed dreaming.
Foundry’s piston tempest captured,
Forward pushing workers raptured,
Frescoed families strife fractured,
Encased by factory’s glass ceiling.
Detroit, you hold what one’s been seeking,
Holding off the coward-armies weakling,
Always rising from the ashes
not returning to the earth.
I so love your heart that burns
That in your people’s body yearns
To perpetuate,
and permeate,
the lonely dream that does encapsulate,
Your spirit, that God insulates,
With courageous dream’s concern.
