Chipped paint and
stale chips.
Pool tables and alley cats
taken in riffs.
We were Kill van Kull
trash ballsy out of
Staten Island.
More guts and glory
than admiral Hallsey.
What you had to eat
silly snacking
we stole on streets
from delis and
drugstores
and had more games
and stupid fun
than Rick James.
Parts and parcel
to tar papered roofs
and carpet staples
still plugged to naked floors.
Valley living
and so far away
from Hollywood.
Popsicle sticks
stuck to lips and
hitched up language.
Being young and dumb
and gifted on the island
of dumpsters and brown lots.
We grew up
a different way,
tough and tuck
for different reasons.
We were boys and girls
for all seasons.
Able to do
what never before was done
and able to go the distance
from the addressed
to the from.
We don't party hard.
We live it skin tight.
We don't own
what we do is
gift the night.
We ride the lightning
and wank the knife.
We don't even scores
we keep the game tight.
While you sit on
champagne and orange juice
and lament the
morning rain
we stay audible
and walk with aviators
regardless of the time of day.
We drink forties and
push more of these
because every minute
is another executions stay.
We were whipped dumb
and succumbed
to generational short circuits,
we weren't first
or the fastest
or on trends out the gate,
but, fuck, we'll be some
sad ass day time t.v. story
if we don't push shit back
bite your face
and take
just a minute
to fucking radiate.
