Taking Aim at a Macy’s Changing Room Mirror, I Blame Television

No chain link fences leapt in a single bound. No juke move Nike commercial, speeding bullet Skittles-hued Cross Trainers. No brown skin Adonis weaving trails of industrial Vaseline down a cobblestone street. Heisman-shucking trash receptacles. Grand jeté over the little blue recycling bin, a prism of clouds rising beneath his feet. Nobody all-fucked in boot cuffs wide enough to cloak court appointed tethers. Or slumped over, hoodie-shrouded —sheepishly scary according to one eye witness. Definitely not going to be your Louis V Sweat Suit red carpet fashion review, coming at you live from E! & Fox News outside of the morgue. No chance for homeboy in the peekaboo boxer shorts. Homeboy with the frozen wrists. Iced. Homeslice with the paisley, Pretty Flacko Flag flying by the seat of low-slung denim — no defense attorney gets to call me Gang Related. Tupac in a mock leather bomber. No statement taken from the Clint Eastwood of your particular planned community, saying he had the right to stand his ground at the Super Target. Because my flat-billed, fitted cap cast a shady shadow over his shoulder in the checkout line. No, siree. See, I practice self target practice. There is no sight of me in my wears. I bedecked in No Wrinkle Dockers. Sensible navy blazer. Barack Obama tie, Double Consciousness- knotted. Stock dandelion pinned to the skin of an American lapel with his head blown off.