You know, when you talk,
but if you're from where I'm from
you may be "tawking,"
and depending on who you're
tawking to, and where they're from:
which bend of road
or angle of sun or moon-
light hits the dark room
of throat, informs
the way they say what they say,
which side of lip
the words plummet from or how tongue
strings 'em together chops
'em screws 'em,
how Mona is from a below
place where the speakers
speak like they're pulling up
word anchors from the deepest
depths of Mouf, or in some parts
more salt, and others more peppa:
whether cayenne or corn—
I'm in love with a boy
from East Oakland whose word is
stretched longer than
twelve hearses,
and his Dickies are starched.
In Texas, it is the vibration of
the dinner bell, in Kansas
something different.
In New Yawk, Nueva Yol,
Brooklawn-Vietnawm,
where the tongues pulse like
marquees, talk keeps the lights on!
When T-Pain dissected
the tone of Flux
Capacitor, of E.T.'s grand
piano, and named his album
Rappa Ternt Sanga, he wasn't being
ignorant, or ignant at that, wasn't bad
at spelling (maybe bad
at rapping which is why
he turned singer), but he was
accounting for the texture of the dirt
in his teef. He was showing it off
in his smile. This makes sense to me.
Because I want everyone
to see the Rhode Island in my elbow.
I want everyone to know
I was born in a kawfee mug
floating down Narragansett Bay
and raised by a Lion.
And by kawfee mug I mean:
I was born in an alphabet that left its R
on the dressa—and by Narragansett Bay
I mean: an estuary flowing with wrenches
and ratchets and uniforms—and by Lion:
I mean my mother, who's been serving
breakfast to regulars since 1975
(when I showed up),
and to this day they still come to see
her, my ma
who tawks to each and every one
of them cuz she's gotta hotta-gold.
-Michael Cirelli
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