Ode to 180 Pairs of White Gloves

smacking that ass
making a phat beat
(the thinking man’s Beyoncé
endlessly sketching
Isaach de Bankolé)

O hair as urgent bulletin
cosmic drifts of hair
emitting important information
O untapped talents and salted bravado
a syntactic turn-on

a paragraphic chasm
stirring up hallucinogenic
invader magic
resembling a hoarded apocalypse
of fetishized resistance
against a corridor of wounds

O honeypot hand in a real
busy honeycomb
watching the bees
suck on brown girls’ legs—sharp
like hustlers or suicidal stargazers
O pink lips first pulling on a Kool