The Irvington Swagger

I am from an amputated skyline
borrowing views from distant cousins.
I am from the heart of Irvington,
where bandanas wave from faded stop signs.
Chalky brown brick walls
turn bright red from his insides.
At night the cops come to find his body
dead in the gravel.
it's another name printed in warm black ink
for the paper boy to throw at your doorstep.


I am from
THERE ARE NO SECOND CHANCES
.. but there are.
Neighbors who shake our hands
and take their hats off in our presence
leave their habits in my yard.
He gets taken away
and comes back tomorrow
with an anger so hot
it hurts to think about.
He's just an Irvington man
who sings the blues even on sunday afternoons.


Elaborate frames cradle your smile on the wall
I was the after thought, with no space left.
But music cures all
Dusty turn tables know our favorite songs
Hey, Linda the Beatles are singing to you today
So swivel your hips to the beat
Cause you've got no time to lose
on August Afternoons.



I fall asleep to garbled yelling
under a sketchy dimly lit street lamp.
The moon greets me at my window
to tell me I'm safe.
Bunk beds separate dreams at night.
I slowly suffocate myself in cloth
on the bottom bunk,
until the oxygen wakes me up.


Leaders, who do you follow?
A gun who wears the opposite colors?
I watch them chase each other around
until one falls down.
He is wrapped in shadows.
Welcome to teenage wasteland.
The golden age is over.


They can walk the walk
and talk the talk
without getting caught.
But I am just a kid
who learned to run before I learned to cry.
I am running
I am always running from prejudice
It's just too slow sometimes.
It soaks into my streets
my lawn
my pores.


I am from stunned
and grieving parents.
Whose broken sentences
can never be healed.
The tall man opens and closes his car door
and falls
to his knees.
All he can say is
"I'm so sorry"
as he runs his hands through his hair.