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stonepicnicking_okapi[I am really only keen--but very keen--on the line in bold. I think it would make a good Hallowe'en prompt.]
Dear Barbershop, by Chris Slaughter
Is this a barbershop? If we can’t talk straight
in the barbershop, then where can we talk straight?
—Eddie Cedrick
I come from you: every argument, debate and dare—
every hand-me-down bet that taught me to run
from nothing while fading the world down small enough
to doubt. No one else understands the gravity
in the way a chair turns after a fight, and blood stains
hair and hard wood floors. Music somehow tells the story
better than us, mirrors turn away, but I saved
the dirt from my nails. I’m not hard currency
to you—anymore. I’m no longer steady handed and perfect for slang.
You say, with every chair in the shop full “What happened to you man?
You even look at customers like they’re not good enough anymore”
—but I’m made from discussion, contradiction, and cheap cognac. Cussing
in every sentence just to get points across the room. I’m a glass bottle
on the ledge of some mantle that built a ship inside of itself (and the ghosts
it holds).
I’m against the same grain as I’ve always been, believe in
the same sharp line and burn. I’m the same crazy bastard
that called the pizza man a racist, with mute Omar by my side
waving his arms—don’t forget what hurts
what makes our blood agree, how women come in alone
with their boys and listen to us go on about presidents, one-night stand sex,
and Kobe’s fade-away; they listen to us throw nigga and bitch around
like natural terms of endearment— I just want my name back.
Dear Barbershop, by Chris Slaughter
Is this a barbershop? If we can’t talk straight
in the barbershop, then where can we talk straight?
—Eddie Cedrick
I come from you: every argument, debate and dare—
every hand-me-down bet that taught me to run
from nothing while fading the world down small enough
to doubt. No one else understands the gravity
in the way a chair turns after a fight, and blood stains
hair and hard wood floors. Music somehow tells the story
better than us, mirrors turn away, but I saved
the dirt from my nails. I’m not hard currency
to you—anymore. I’m no longer steady handed and perfect for slang.
You say, with every chair in the shop full “What happened to you man?
You even look at customers like they’re not good enough anymore”
—but I’m made from discussion, contradiction, and cheap cognac. Cussing
in every sentence just to get points across the room. I’m a glass bottle
on the ledge of some mantle that built a ship inside of itself (and the ghosts
it holds).
I’m against the same grain as I’ve always been, believe in
the same sharp line and burn. I’m the same crazy bastard
that called the pizza man a racist, with mute Omar by my side
waving his arms—don’t forget what hurts
what makes our blood agree, how women come in alone
with their boys and listen to us go on about presidents, one-night stand sex,
and Kobe’s fade-away; they listen to us throw nigga and bitch around
like natural terms of endearment— I just want my name back.
no subject
Date: 2026-05-14 05:45 pm (UTC)