He was lean,
a hungry coyote,
tattoo'd, cynical,
probably coming down
from smoking a bowl.

"I dig your tattoos."

"Thanks man. I got a few,
I'd like a few more,
but that **** costs a lot of money."

His hair was shaggy,
reaching for his shoulders,
he hadn't shaved in a couple
weeks.

"What does that Asian script
on the back of your neck mean?"

"Oh,
it means Black.
Ya know?
Like my last name.
It's like a ******' football jersey.
Just in case I forget my name."

We walked down
darkened corridors,
he made me nervous.
Not like I'm going to
**** my britches nervous,
but that this guy is older,
wiser, not afraid to say
whatever the hell he wants,
and probably doesn't want
to waste his time, kinda way.

"Nah, dude.
Burch threw me a bone on this one.
I picked up most of my writing from
taking a course on Creative Writing
with Professor Jamison.
The dude was ******* legit.
He went to Yale or some ****.
Two Ivy Leagues anyway.
You would'uh loved him.
He made bank too.
90 grand,
more than anybody else I
know on this campus."

He talked satire,
he talked poetry,
he seemed ready to devour
any unsightly barrier in his way.

"It was nice to meetcha'"

"Hell yeah, you take care of yourself."

Why do I have a feeling that Mr. Black is going to drastically
alter
my life?