Morgan Parker: Boys, Boys, Boys

“She like, why you don’t buy me Reeboks no more?” – Jay-Z, “Girls, Girls, Girls”

Got homies
in the deep south and two parts of Newark, bartenders
in the East Village and West,
            white-walled bedrooms, their Mamas’ cribs
            writing love letters, blowing up my cell
making promises sweet
as B-sides to take me to St. Tropez,
to jump
when my drink looks low.

In California the dudes
are so cute they’re stupid, smash Nattys
on the sides of their skulls, get me
high in backseats and the corners
of suburban house parties.

For years I’ve been scattering them:
blue-eyed men
coloring one side of the sun,
long-haired guys sweaty with treble,
            hustlers with shiny rims for teeth,
            running always from wild plants and police.

Applicants without extensive
dicks and cash flows need
to sit the fuck down.
            Everyone else, you alright, except
            I’ll expect you to change for me.
I know you won’t, I whisper
to every boy every morning
while he snores, stiff
and hairy in my bed.

I’ll take whatever but: New kicks
better be so fly I lose my breath.

The wanting more
can make a sister crazy so I settle
for free shit: trade you digits for dinner
and treat this like the business it is.
I can make a mixtape my own
damn self.

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