brownA Poem by h d e rushinfor Ornette ColemanIf I was half the f*g I was in the 80's, i'd want it back, all of it, lost. I would want what was depicted, surrounded by dancing satyrs and maenads. Like the jerry curl again, slick and glistening, dripping "Lonely Woman" on our unforgiving collars. It's that we just didn't get it. Not then. Not now. Like sex in the car, we didn't want it slow, we wanted it quick before someone saw through the steam and fog of windshields gone horribly horizontal. Like a speeding train, some of us don't know beauty well enough to stroke the back of it's nap. Had I fallen in love young, would we not place the plastic border now against the iris bed? Nothing on earth can mean the glorification of supreme worth. With the price sticker still attached, the Sofn' free curl moisturizing spray (with jojoba oil) sits ready as it it's 79 again, when Michael Jackson was "Off the Wall" and brown as a brownie. Brown as my Sony radio. Brown as oak tree branches. (And i'm groping for anything brown in my wardrobe). Oh yeah, brown as a pair of brown Bostonians the one's I wore to dads funeral. Brown like the tobacco of his Chesterfield Kings. Brown as the brown slick in his drawers. Brown as the visiting nurse. Brown as the gone mad police chief. Brown as the fist of Tamir Rice, the one that held the plastic pistol. Brown as a riot. How can a riot be brown? What I mean is, brown as the burned seat cushions of the overturned Crown Victoria. Brown as pizza box lettering. Brown as CVS looting. Brown as the t**d filled sky. © 2015 h d e rushinReviews
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4 Reviews Added on June 15, 2015 Last Updated on June 15, 2015 |

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