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by Steven Trainor/Special to PNN
Clusters. Sporadic segregation. Homes of deficient housing. Shambled
shacks and dying grass, when will our messiah come. The smooth kiss from
the spirit of the street as she hides behind the cast iron fencing.
Aggravated mugs glare endless into the mirror's of poverty as a mean to end
our woes.
Refusal, defiance. My brothers who tailor the sidewalks carry their burdens
as a smile of ease. Heat. Sweating hunches at the ghetto bower. Here is
the home of wreckage. This is the plan of finacial demise. Here within the
metal street signs and gang graffiti. Comal and Third.
Parks dazzled in Hollywood fashion as young African children stand staring,
wishing to grip their fingers around monkey bars. The camera's expose
stillness. Something unknown to the nature of the HOOD. Hands work
faculties of cleaning. Never gracing the simple pleasures in life. It is
here where we suture our wounds of poverty. A sense of brotherhood only the
projects know.
Sleek skin framed by black hair, catches my guards low. I wish to know her
flesh, she is aware and smiling. A daughter to the same pain as I.
Yearning to touch her skin. Wishing to examine her coils. For she is a
gift to these long drawn days. Sister to the street, mother of the future.
Windows heavily shaded as to not embrace violation. A standard
understanding, unperiled by strangers and residents alike. For he who
comes unknowing shall fall victim to the strife of the block which is
traveled.
Savage. Unrelenting. A constant state of constant awareness. Flowing
movement. Always alive. A place of weakness and strength. There is no
medium. It either is or it is not. There are nothing but crumbling homes
and broken dreams. And a place to rest your head. Comal and Third.
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