Born in the desolate mouth of Detroit, I grew up knowing homelessness by its first name. I would stand on the curb watching waves of whisky light fires in the bellies of likeable bodies and watch them bounce off the curb like a bottle; breaking open, shattering like glass. I would run barefoot over blood and dust, finding relief in opened fire hydrants as the summer sun dove into our backs ;I learned to swim through fire. I only held heat once, at eleven years old. Refusing to vanish into the barrel of a gun, I watched violence drip from my palms. The blood of my city came pouring from my eyes as I ran through abandoned neighborhoods. Still, there was sounds and smells lingering behind, like New Orleans after Katrina. Somewhere in the distance, spilling from the shells of old houses, the smell of chicken sizzling in a pan, leaked from a neighboring window. Through the fog of isolation, i heard sounds of drums galloping on the heads of plastic barrels that Larry held between his legs."They don’t want to acknowledge that we exist."