My father was a motley of sound, a funk band
with bottomless drums and songs that knew nothing
of fatigue. My father had teeth like piano keys, a trumpet
in his spine. He coughed like an old record player
and it sounded like music, but what do I know?
I'm just two turntables and a mic. A sample of a man
I can hardly recognize, a photocopy of an instrument
my fingers never learned how to play and all I know is that
there is an epic sleeping underneath my tongue and I have
a story worth telling do here I am, poring the containers
that I keep behind my eyed with plans to baptize you
in all the things I've seen. Hoping these words will be the
fire hydrant on your street corner and you will run
through my stories like sprinklers on days when God
plugs in the sun and decides to crank the volume all the way up.