Ode to Static

Steven Leyva

Ode to Static

—For Dwayne McDuffie

 

Look, it was nice to know
Urkel wasn’t the only choice we had

in our orbit. Another Black nerd with covalent
cool we could share, a diasporic subatomic

dap, we loved you like Rakim verse
vibing every Walkman on the block. Static,

even your government name said classic
guide: Virgil Hawkins. We were in the dark

woods of spinner racks, mostly in a blizzard
of Ubermensch pulping the newborn ’90s pages.

And there you were, floating on a trash can lid,
unashamed, spitting game to fine sistas

like the glow up of Oscar the Grouch. O blue
bodysuit and fitted cap. O gold overcoat

like a return of the Mack. A look 3 Stacks
might sport on an album cover. You were out

saving citizens in style. Uptown fades slicked
every head. We understood the buzz

of a tape rewinding of only being
mentioned in the news via mugshot,

so we sought other panels, comic books, the mirror
you held up to our future. Static you were a milestone

for kids like me, whose brown skin
ran the whole gamut of electro-spectrum.