“Ghetto Balcony”

”Clothes catching the air which smells like detergent, your mother washed loads of this with her spiritual hands. Ghetto balcony, don’t fall over. One day you heard the reds and grays of the cops from up there; 7th floor, who were they arresting now? One day you heard the music that used to play when your parents were young; 22 and 23. Ghetto balcony, don’t fall over. One night, on a nice cool summer night, around midnight you seen a couple have their first kiss, first touch, first everything from up there, in a black car with dirty rims parked on the corner, shaking like a soda bottle and erupting with one scream. Ghetto balcony, don’t fall over..

One night you glimpse the stars from up there and you pray to God to let you become one on that rusty fire escape; looking up, simmering a few words to him like seasoning in a pot hoping he will answer in days time. Ghetto balcony, hood terrace, pistol patio...don’t fall over. One night as you hear the glitz and glam of women congregating and marauding men easing over to the common formalities of rejection and “uh sorry I’m not interested”, your parents, the ones who were in love argue that same night; turning physical, your fathers back exits through the glass windows by your mothers pushing hands, 7th floor what’s going on in there now? You wouldn’t know.

Remember when you asked God to let you let you become a star? high high up in the blues and the cobalt clashes of the 2am sky? Your father catches his body, releasing yours to the society’s scum on the sidewalks. Your mother screams, your fathers eyes are wet with fire, trying to mend his mind and body back together. The congregating women and the rejected men look on with fear to see another boy become a star on the news to the local world, to the concrete ground where he sticks with blood, and most of all to the sky. Ghetto balcony, crime scene country, new gleaming beat suspended in the air...”