You gotta love my, hair. It’s a world of curls…
And it springs into all different shapes &
sizes & textures with just a sprinkle
of salt & pepper. My, scalp is
NYC flavored; follow my journey: My, strands
might form a circle ’round - Ludlow Street into
Christopher Street, on a Saturday night but
these roots they be all Harlem. My, tips fold in-
to, downtown Brooklyn — by way of the 2(A), or
the... 3(C) train… and during the humid summer months
my, curl pattern becomes tighter than a
sidewalk on Times Square, the autumn
winds of October tend to leave my, hair
wilder than a knife fight on a subway train
bobbing, & weaving, its way through intersections
crossing paths, while de / parting. Stops. Begin. Sep-a-rat
ing, into sec-tions that loc. Free / Form - into barrels, like
corn-row / patterns...
of Africa, in NYC, where my, ancestors roots, trace back to
these, streets of concrete
form, brick, be like winter... building my hair into
one, immaculate, frozen lacquer finish; but yet still
g-r-e-a-s-y, with buildup, ever since I washed away these dreams
of curls, of coils, that spin tendrils made of silk, made, of luster
but, only after I co-wash & then, rinse
& then, relax my, head against my, satin pillow
case...
during those long cold winter nights, leaving hard
brittle ends, to shed its way into a new dawn…
