Them gray hairs unruly—
unjust, how they romp and
roam in a goatee, on a hair-
line, or in pubic arena. Glinting
a fine light. So fine, you can
see they are really refracting
today. Them gray hairs jack up
conformity. They can’t stand
being a body next to a body
if they can’t let their bodies work.
They jut to the left when strands
go right. They jut to the right
when strands go left. You brush
them together and they cackle,
first posing, aligning like they
a regiment—inspired. Then, they
jump and jag their jagged bodies
to protrude out from the symmetrical
line. You thought they were
teased to perfection. Oh no. They
morph their bodies like they broken
and bent, like tattered things,
like a shrubbery or a kindling ready
to set roof on fire. Gray hairs
don’t give a shit about shit.
They are good with themselves—
individuals for life. They love
the parties. More show up like
some flash mob. like at Coachella,
letting pubes frolic about. You
can try dying them out, but them
roots will resurface like the
living dead—they pop up like
bad split ends or mean crab
grass—wiry—inconsolable.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 1.
Curtis L. Crisler was born and raised in Gary, Indiana. Crisler has five full-length poetry books, two YA books, and five poetry chapbooks. He’s been published in a variety of magazines, journals, and anthologies. He’s been an editor and contributing poetry editor. Also, he created the poetry form called the sonastic and he created the Indiana Chitlin Circuit and he is a Professor of English at Purdue University Fort Wayne (PFW). He can be contacted at www.poetcrisler.com.
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