The graffiti in the lobby reads Beat Master Mike,
probably written by a delivery boy
or a friend of the skater kid on 17.
But it’s chilling, my name like that
inscribed on the wall, and exhilarating,
like going under the boardwalk late at night.
I read it first as a violent exhortation—
beat an imperative, master derisive,
either diminutive or ironic, but either way
it means Who-the-fuck-do-I-think-I-am?
Then I realize it’s probably a hip-hop thing,
Beat Master, a DJ tag, and I see myself
with two turntables and the Iliad,
menin aeida thea, m- m- m- menin aeida thea…
and then it explodes like a can of snakes—
beat is masturbatory, or better yet, coital,
from behind, my hands on your hips,
menin aeida thea, m- m- m- menin aeida thea…
and at first I AM THE BEAT MASTER,
but then the Beat Master is a lean lanky
Puerto Rican DJ with Chinese characters
tattooed on both arms, dragons on his chest and back,
and we are together, but only if it’s cool with him—
He could kill me as soon as fuck me,
and for all I know, he will.