Rhapsode

Years before he would sing in Ionic Greek
of the brave souls fallen as carrion for the dogs,
of the bloody siege of Ilion, of the sirens
and the Lotus-Eaters, Homer was a blind banger
in south Chicago.  It was discouraging.
He longed for epic stories of timae or keleos,
but instead there was one about the ghetto star
whose durag slipped so far across his eyes
 
he shot his own cousin in the calf.
And the hoot rat who fell from a first-floor
window and broke her clavicle.  And everyone
drinking 40’s and getting sucked on
by some strawberry.  Or that BG doing a bomb
and ending up in the Academy for pissing
on a PoPo’s shoe.  It was all MSB this
or FTW that.  It was still another toss up
 
or saggin to the point it was nearly impossible
to walk.  And everyone kept asking him to tell
that one about the fugly so fat you couldn’t
find the spot amid her folds.  Sometimes
there were days when he would go out on a g-ride
or would be working curb service when all
he could think about was how bleak
the Chicago streets felt in the cold.

And even though he flew the flag, was always
and forever, and was selected once as a joke
to be the blow man, he dreamed some day of finding
a leather bag containing all the winds, of Achilles’
strength and wrath, of dead Patroclus, of dactylic
hexameter, of hubris, of a young Nausicaa or the Cyclops
or the spirit of Tiresias or Circe or the cannibal Laestrygones
or the monster Scylla—then finally home to Ithaca.