Sullen Slauson Avenue on a Friday Afternoon
Touching skies blasted in your eyes tell me that Nipsey is not here counting on the wasted moments of destined chases. A Slauson sunrise movement to Eastern Avenue counting credit cards and tipsy on coffee and Invega.
A day in the life comet cold touch the moon with half-baked thoughts of prosperous moves.
On the back of a napkin, I write these words with Jack in the Box clogging my heart already heavy with sadness, tragedy enveloping the cold pallbearer of tomorrow’s youth.
I sat at Fat Burger when your soul was flying and the television made your vision of a marathon never-ending. I took Atlantic Boulevard until my car busted and the drive pulled me to this meal of carbohydrates and soda.
I should have counted the bands that I tricked away for momentary pleasure but to this peon with pencil dreams it means nothing.
Heaven is your viewpoint Nipsey and how much trouble do you see?
We climb on the streets where piles of worries line the corner.
Outside is your memorials and with that is this imagined community of Slauson Avenue’s craziest and finest popped together with no more factories to have a square dream. This is a foul ball if this God really prefers the impoverished. Jesus is savior and manages our click but we laugh at the only words the lord said.
Jesus exclaimed that humility will give earth as a possession but all I see is debt collectors. When I had money, friends called but now it’s debt collectors wanting my ex-wife’s money that she kept from me.
Slauson Avenue dreams of satin dolls and Christmases filled with glazed donuts and hams.
But what I see is fortresses of jobs that won’t take my application seriously because of my family origins and immigrant dreams.
I pen this down with cold thoughts and trained mercenaries after me and my paranoid twisted, shadowy footsteps. I beg for recognition while I still have body so visible growing with pizza crust my best friend.
Somewhere in Huntington Park, I brushed my shoe soles with show stoppers throwing up neighborhood slang with the deaf seeing their finger folded threats.
How did we get stuck on Slauson Avenue again? With the parish of ancestors quietly mentioned on the ghost of ear hustles uttered by unknown friends and ancestors that bang on sight with clenched jaws and fists. Trust the code that became secondary to gold just like Jesus beattitudes never uttered by a Preacher in a Rolls Royce.
