bedford-stuyvesant, new york
i.
a contradiction, embodied in human mass,
scrawled in an alphabet
that nobody cares to decipher.
addled alcoholics.
bounce-back bodegas.
crack-crazed corners.
depleted dumpsters.
eager enemies.
fallacious friends.
grease-gutted grates.
heartbroken hairstylists.
inadequate insurance.
jaundiced jalopies.
killer kudzu.
lavish liquor.
mirthful mujeres.
nonstop night-sticks.
ornery opportunists.
pissant police.
quizzical quacks.
rambling renegades.
sixteen sub shops.
terrific tacos.
undulating upstarts.
victorious vagrants.
wandering wiggers.
x-ray xenophobia.
yesterdays yogis.
zantacked zombies.
ii.
gentrification is a maginot line,
bombarding the ghetto next door
with its promise of fulfillment,
and the ghetto gets tempted
by the gleam of fancy cars
that are paid for in cash,
as young trash pickers
sort through peaks of trash,
and a fancy car
from across the maginot line
makes a wrong turn,
causing another bus to crash.
there are ghettos of the mind,
thought-traps; ghettos of the body,
skin-slums,
where every block
is just a paradox.
the civic genius of brown bags,
grasped by old men with too much time.
a hydrant burst open,
snow-cold jets hitting every child.
the same radio station bringing joy
to old and young, as jumpropes
twirl in tune with the beatbox
on the corner, while the next biggie
has to beg for approval,
improving discordant sonnets
for an audience of third graders,
there is not a pig to be found
and the buses have all shut down,
and not a single taxi is around,
and all pairs of feet
have left the ground.
every block is just a paradox,
a contradiction embodied in human mass,
as a regal woman, dressed in sunday finest,
makes her way home, slowly,
to the last brownstone
that is not for sale.
