Fumes
"The streets of Berkeley are paved with weed"
The Wife's wry rejoinder to a friend's laconic quip:
"The streets of Harlem are paved with weave"
Indeed, gentrification hasn't affected the surfeit of wigs
The Senegalese and Gambian vendors proffer the hair products
Essential oils - massage, incense and herbs with vital aromas
Nighttime potency assured, all that is missing is the candles
Spoil yourself, pomade, scent of argan oil
What strange brews, mystical even, we throw on our hair
Fake Rolexes and Gucci knockoffs - Versace misspelled on the label
Don't look too closely, fast talkers on 125th Street make their pitch
"Boss, we can make a deal, okay, tell you what, tell me your last price.."
But back to Berkeley, we lived around the block from Wavy Gravy's commune
He, the MC of Woodstock fame, the Summer of Love,
Hippie consciences, sustainability pledges
Farm to table, organic everything, ecological awareness
More conscious than thou, earnest as kettle oatmeal
Puff then, fumes, scent of marijuana
What strange fruit of the progressives
Goody Two Shoes, home of the gluten free
Righteous living, just a few miles north of Fruitvale Station
Fumes, a playlist
A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)
- Wavy Gravy by Kenny Burrell
- Freedom Jazz Dance by Eddie Harris
- The Hustler by Stanley Turrentine
- Hair by Graham Central Station
- Street Corner Hustler Blues by Lou Rawls
Writing log: January 15, 2023
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