Jump­man: A Ghazal with Piv­ots

The Iowa Review - - NEWS - Cort­ney la­mar charleston

In a city where bird is bas­keted on a bed of white bread and french fries, fly­ness is pred­i­cated on what em­blem is rocked on feet, see: Jump­man.

Gospel’s ba­sis be­gins by tes­ti­mony, al­ways. In this case, He: Jump­man. God dis­guised as Michael Jor­dan quipped the man nick­named Leg­end.

It’s gotta be the shoes, right? Grav­ity-de­fiers. Dei­fiers, for real. The way he hangs crooked in the air like a hanged man’s neck. He got jumps, man!

The lat­est pair re­leased. Bad move: these kids just might be jumped, man. Tongue stick­ing out: how boys brashly walk windy streets when they got

them things, three dig­its easy. He makes shoes for Repub­li­cans, too. Puffs cigars, clip­ping balls off tees. Logo of a per­son­al­ity: he been jumped, man.

Posts up. Dou­ble-teamed. Kicks out. Re-posts. Three drib­bles in. Fakes right. Piv­ots base­line. Fades away.

Hoop. Ear ring. Ped­dle cologne. Open restau­rants. Eat free: like Jump­man. All I want to do is ball. Be at least six feet six inches tall. Wear that gold.

Die. I’m a kid, you see. I got dreams of man­sion wings. Don’t start talk­ing to me about sweat­shops. Wife-cheat­ing. Rolling loaded—

an­other pair snatched off a body: choir­boys sing, but come June, His phone just rings.

He came back a second time, but with no growth spurt in sight, I minded to book­ish things: bal­lis­tics, statis­tics, sav­ing lives. A bet­ter me jumped, man.

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