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

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

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.