Sunday, December 17, 2006

My Hair

My hair is like dog fur.
No one has ever told me this
but that’s my belief.
Right now my hair has grown out
and it is poofed like a burrito
of chicken feathers.
I’m a sort of head-bearded bird.
I believe there are slaughterhouses
designed to make
my death as efficient as possible.
I mean the death of my hair,
which is unbridled like
a Shepard’s love for metaphor.
My hair is a thatch of
mouse houses.
My mother and father agree
that I have a beautiful color to my hair.
It is varied and rich, mottled browns
and ribald reds.
My mastery of shitty description
My hair like the lisp of a barber. Or
my hair like a British guitar.
My tuft like a rough flowered