Читать книгу Mr. West - Sarah Blake - Страница 12
ОглавлениеLIKE THE POEMS DO
I ask,
“Who’s that?”
and Noah answers,
“Mos Def.”
“Is Kanye rapping like Snoop Dogg there?”
“No. His jaw is wired shut.”
Another song,
“Is that Common?”
“Yes. They’re friends. They’re both from Chicago.”
Noah’s been listening
to rap since middle school. He used to make tapes
off the radio and listen to them until they broke.
I grew up saying, I listen to everything but country
and rap.
Recently, I spent another evening researching Kanye.
This time
about his 2004 debut album, College Dropout.
“Through the Wire” came out fast, without permission for the sample of Chaka Khan’s “Through the Fire.”
I tell Noah. We’re on our computers,
across the room.
He pulls up Khan’s song; I pull up Kanye’s music video.
The room is a mess of sound.
I tell Noah how Kanye kisses his hand, places it
on a larger-than-life poster of Khan.
Is there a poem of Kanye as a teenager, loving
the woman who sings, too,
“I’m Every Woman”?
A smaller poster in his smaller room.
Noah with posters of Erykah Badu and Lauryn Hill,
if he were the sort of boy to have posters.
Noah and I move to the bedroom soon,
and every night. Noah lets me
bring Kanye in,
knows our life has room for all of it.
