I hope
to carry always
an air of
disrepute —

not to sport the stale
bad boy label,
not to dress myself
in an outfit stitched
from assumptions
and bad cultural
hangovers;

not to paint my face
in dark primaries
then go out at night
in good black
and sad spots of silver
shiny enough
that even when I creep
the shadows, I’m sure
to be noticed and noted;

no, what I seek is

just enough
gnarl and twist
in my carriage and form
that from one glance
a stranger might say,

“Well…from the look of him
it’s hard to tell what’s what.

It might be
danger, it might be wisdom,
it might be hard roads or
soft boundaries.

Whatever it is,
I wouldn’t have voluntarily gone
where I suspect he’s gone, but

I’m glad someone did.”