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Ravaged laces bond black power
lines to red Converses that dangle over roads littered with cigarette butts once held between calloused
fingers and smoky lips; crushed bodies of Coors Lights crunch beneath the tires of a low rider, windows rest beneath powdery
elbows, speakers thump with the deafening bass of an old Tupac song, Ghetto Gospel; Section 8 front yards flattened by hard feet, slim rubber tires, and years of bounce houses;
No green left on this brown, dilapidated land; Glistening bronze bodies stand at attention on small front porches, cornered in by rusted
Bars, wearing dingy wife-beaters and baggy shorts; Crucifixes rise and fall with each breath; Minions in full diapers, toiling the soil with stubby, sticky fingers; Smoky silhouettes braid through the air, ascending from charred meat on an old grill, crossing between naked tree branches, under
exposed cocoa legs that step to Frankie Beverly; Liquor stores and Baptist churches mingle on the corner, breathtaking work of an outcast adorns the side of a condemned building; Martin Luther King Boulevard and yellow police tape profiling the outskirts of a crime
scene; Wheelies popped over popped gun shells and it's nothing but another Sunday in the Hood
YOU ARE READING
Poems & Stuff
PoetryI write poems and stuff about whatever pops into my head and sometimes people like them so here we go.
