the ecstasy of taggin. pops call it feet draggin.
him, guilty of new age carpetbaggin. not negro feet saggin.
bought himself a brand new volvo wagon.
i.
devouring baldwin,
no name in the street.
as true for myself
as the phantoms i greet.
the august haze of an abandoned train yard
the bare ass of a hibernating warehouse
could become my private sistine chapel.
the spray can feels cathartic;
looking moonward, it is quite easy to forget
the periphery and its nausea.
toothpick tenement rows,
standing at rigid attention
before five-cylinder overseers.
hints of authentic trees, vague shades
of wildlife: the ghetto breeds
a peculiar species of strife
cain against abel
latifa versus mabel
and we are all sinking
and we are all sinking
and we are all sunk.
ii.
yesterday, i spotted a corpse,
by the bike trail,
in a kind of funk.
fools-gold puzzlement,
crack rock double cross
no doubt
as talented tenth tour de france buffs
with spandex assholes
whizzed by like rocketed roadrunners,
oblivious to their shattered brother
adorning the little pine tree
like a macabre christmas ornament.
Iii.
i first spray in circles,
whirlwind some slashes
hearing far off cymbal crashes
seeing doberman squads
out the corners of my eyelashes.
i hug the precinct bench,
tuning out rancid pork chop stench.
in walks pops, hardly surprised
not posting my bail
-much as i had surmised.
he takes one look, finger starts to quiver
eyes as wide as the amazon river.
now they got me in a cell
and my bones start to shiver.
