Ms. Widman Amundsen Vikings
Chicago hairstylist, ew
but The Hair Don is her name
The way she can do a head could save the universe
The way she swoops an edge
The way she twists a dread
The savior of one’s matted head
It’s safe to say she is the hair God
The way those chubby little fingers glide across a head
And boom in about 2 hours
The beauty of the person you seen in the mirror 2 hours ago enhances
The most beautiful thing you have seen
The way she slaps a glob of gel on her hand and it soon disappears
And when you look back up the most wonderful thing appears
Beauty
And you see me The Hair Don did it again
Heaving the strings like spooling rope
I contorted my hand to a nameless shape.
The amp regurgitated the guttural sound,
sonic trickery careened around the room rebounding off the thick walls.
Cheese graters to my fingers as I played, peeling
off the flesh of my calluses.
My forehead the silk road for beads of pulsating
sweat, moving their way down to my hands.
The nerves in my hand tightening like that
of a spider retracting their web.
My teeth clench as blood gushed
from my carpals.
We stopped.
“That was a good warm-up; let’s do a second take.”
Shit.
Walking upstairs bed frame
broken.
Clueless on what to do
all alone
figuring how to fix it
try again and again
8:00pm time ticking
head itching, wishing
someone could help.
Remember life is about
challenges but I will fix it.
Remembering I got this.
Remembering I don’t care what time it is.
I fix it! I fix it!
I fix my bed frame.
All my life I’ve been poor as a baby and now
but I still keep going because I have to.
Every time I look at myself I do not see waste,
I see POTENTIAL: something that will happen.
In my life: I’ve been ALONE to kid to now but I know
it will find me, LOVE, if not I will keep going.
My family has been so poor that we lived in basements.
Until the day I DIE I will make them rich, safe, and happy.
I want to be known for something, I know it’s greedy, but
I want to be in HISTORY. I refuse to be somebody.
Some nobody.