My Afro Is My Stereo
My Afro is my stereo and
those dry waves of sound loop
into the curls of my head,
little electrons orbiting
Old sounds drift to the back
and down my shoulders, skating
lines of sweat.
New sounds migrate north to my
Bald Spot, clear to transmit
Conversations drift around the equator
and my ears, winding their way up
the double-helix, attaching themselves
as head lice. Impossible to forget.
Unable to eradicate.
Music, the burrower, dives deep
for the scalp, protected from reality’s
vicissitudes, moisturizing my roots,
adding shine to my pale red.
Giving me fire.
The banging of the cities.
The soft hum of the pastoral.
The endless repetition of the suburbs,
beautiful in their discordance.
Grinning tigers purr, baying wolves
sing, humans hate, commiserate, embrace,
elegant in harmony.
All this noise is mine,
in a cloud around my stereo.
My cacophony of an Earth song.