The gospel according to m

Live the sounds of the block, sprinkled with city grid inspired pay phone stalls attached to the ears of …

“Yo! What’s up mamita? Yeah you, looking nice wit that thick ass-ass … Yo son, for real I’d fuck the shit outta her!”

17 years old, 34C almost close to a D, pretty brown round and trying to run with these thoroughbreds – lil niggaz breathing every breath and living with their appointments for death and in this game offsides, personal fouls, and missing a sign could lead to murals for life after death and shorties screaming, crying –

“He was such a good kid”, “That was my nigga yo”, “Fuck the police and fuck them crackers too!” “He was my baby”

Welcome to the block where summers are hot, hood stars catch fire, and the stories live – because each voice has a face and every face has a scar. Young souls grow colder faster while innocence develops a resistance to the infinite possibilities of hope. Stop. Take a breath. Look around. Soak it in. So deep are her impressions you can smell, hear, and taste her affects. She gave me my swag and taught the importance of watching while listening, her points were made crystal clear every time she laid a nigga down. Hollow points tear the fabric of my pride every time my oldest is forced to eat his 4th favorite dinner with juicy juice punch though at best I can only muster ambivalence towards his mother. They long ago received their nostalgic triggers – 3 days ago my nicotine retirement and the ever-present aroma of indo scent. Their souls will remember my frequent misremembering, trips out of the room for “What the fuck did I come out her for anyway?” Kisses while they slept and conversations concerning their grandchildren’s well being.

I love my sons!

The divine creator’s gift to my existence, two treasures, and newer visions of myself in this predestined voyage of free will. Now to be fair, maybe he was too damaged to love his approval came with chutes + ladders type consequences self loathing, self pity, and self destruction, ya headin’ for self destruction – but ya only get one pops right?

Provoked by transformational re-creation we can now see past, each building erected in efforts to shorten the boundless nature of our horizon, each high-rent luxury condo complete with swimming pool world class fitness facility movie theater and other exclusatory amenities. We can now see past every hood hustlin’ high performance vehicle driving voice box for the Lord. Can I get a witness ...

I think slow & far now, the future is my reality. Gone is the trigger from his verbal cannon replaced by love + praise, for those truly are the seeds of any impassioned childhood. The older I get, the more I like him. The older he gets, the more I know I’ll miss him when he’s gone. The more I look in the mirror, the more I see him …