stuy
on fulton street. almost
almost by striding
i’ve reached the no more
junk eat healthy halal
is the answer awning; and sing
and praise my drunkard’s walk
it’s my honor to be down
on Fulton with my blind
dose of awkward freedom
and pick up the pace of life.
so maybe the life is mine
it’s been a plastic night in
and i can only pass by you
in the crown fried
chicken so many times
before my dream of our mutual
progress bites the dust, man
and in passing there’s produced
gratitude or insanity
for having been passed
by at all. depends on the night.
far from the plastic center
of the city where the money
asks you not to shout
i listen for other reasons
a task rabbit making hereditary
gestures or at least gorgeous
dumbshows thereof. y’all’ll still see wins
in the deli, still hear numbers shouted and read
the three big rags that favor things
like ‘slay rap due on bag tot ma’
which is a headline with an MFA behind it
if i’ve ever seen one.
i can squint in ice cream sun
and continue to pound the word
you into a weapon, spinning, bouncing
it like an old screen saver in the cave
of worried sleep where i remain
allowed, i believe several denouncements per minute
pointless though i am.
who looks at Fulton changes fast - the death of chance for space
to live parades itself with more confidence than ever. no one
reminds you to repeat
‘i’m nothing’ in fact
in fact an armed bureaucrat
will insist that’s not true, which is your cue to kick his ego
crutch into the machine
making you skim skrill in the first place
assuming you aren’t already changing
your mind about the nightmare
where you can’t stop
saying i love you
to someone who forsook
Fulton so long ago.
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