Beardless man in my mirror,
asks me who I think I am.
I look your way and wonder what you
were it your face sending questions
the window to my soul.
I'd say I am a bold-faced liar who learned
not to lie through the hair on my face.
My bald face says, for centuries now, what
a bald head says now, "I know how to wield
a blade this sharp, without cutting myself,
maybe I have played the role,
mirror neuronical sharper than any two-edge,
but I feel honed when I shave, ready to shine
my steely glare on the fool that questions
the reason for my faith in my blade,
and so I don't
look as old as Noam Chomsky,
that's why I shaved.
- The face communicates
See, I got this nerve, CNX,
it hooks under that fattest art-
ery in my chest,
where all true riches rest, lazy-like,
thinkin' some poor soul got tricked again,
Gwan, say so, man, watcha know f'show?
Got a light?
Gotta charisma authorized poet's license?
Have you ever known what's
Perhaps you should talk to someone.
And if I looked as old as Noam Chomsky,
they would know I lack the will to use the blade,
and maybe wonder
if I lost the knack.
Then I grin and watch'em see the apple in m'eye.
Been burnin' brush and the beard was itchin'