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 It’s hot on the block. There’s no room to breath.   We gon’ pull up in that hooptie, like we cops on ‘em.    With M16’s, we gon’ put some shots on ‘em . . .    Grimey savage, that’s what we are . . .    Shots poppin’ out the AR.      Frenzied trigger fingers flick at the camera with no guns, but it’s impossible to not imagine the slugs. And, in the club, dance floors drip with sweat; the streets drip in colorful bloods.
  The sound of war is like Beethoven’s music. We have become accustomed to this music: without it we couldn’t manage . . . We ordinary people own the world.     Father’s garden is the last oasis in a land of scorched and desolate streets. His green enclave stands a harbinger of life for the body, eyes, and soul. The mood is ethereal and the execution carnal: flower heads are torn by hollow tips; Father’s head by radar blips. 
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  They left us in the jungle in the rain with a gun and a bayonet . . . and you better use the bayonet, because if you don’t kill them with it, they’ll kill you with it.     HA! In. The. RAAAAIN!       He is dressed better than I: black leather loafers, black slacks, black designer-looking tee, wrist watch, and a matching black hat like he’s at a funeral for his former self. He tucks his bag full of pan-handled groceries under his head and passes out on the park bench across from a graffiti-covered wall: a guerilla war of its own. A reclamation of lost land, barren ground, and ignored concrete. Cans, markers, nibs, and caps rattle in backpacks: the Ego still at play, strapped. Out of the house at 3 AM the snow stops, its undulations roll blue and yellow in the streetlights. The snow melts beneath our feet. The colors swirl.   
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  am just thanx to ma god for given me to breath,     i just still hustling in street as such      She is dressed better than I. She is black; I am white. She stands proud on a small clean patch along the cradle of evolution. Cellular iterations of both our ancestors left in piles of tired bones and strained sinew. Dominant and recessive; flattened and aggressive. We talk about the animals she’s never seen, the life I’ve never lived, and the absolute confounding principles of global economics as defined by force, slavery, pressure, and, between us, shoulder shrugs, sideways glances, and luck. Part of her wants to move to where I live; part of me to where she lives.    
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