speaking for a community of peeps routed from their last stand
making statements about remembering
tellin stories about ourselves
giving the drab dead industrial sarcophagi a a face lift
freeing the entombed mummies to let em walk with the living again
seein things in a new light
reciting our biographies
writing an epic autobiography
splashed across 3D murals
spoken in the lexicon of gobsmack multicolored neon graffiti
testifying to the ages with our urban hieroglyphs
the symbols of life in the hood may history be our witness to aromas rising from cracked pavements teaming with bodegas, public projects and store front fantasies played out in all its grueling detail on the corner of walk don’t walk
them snaps real down home expressions of real people
until some capitalist *******
his pockets filled with low interest money
whitewashed it away
he thinks he owns the 5 Pointz
he thinks he can erase our memories with a gallon of Sherwin Williams
he thinks he owns our perdido graffito
and is well in his rights to launder our epiphanies over with the bland tag of privilege he thinks his dollar bills can buy
we raised this place from the dead
that old warehouse where men and women once earned a paycheck was murdered by Michael Milken and his posse of well heeled predators busy leveraging livelihoods by offshoring them to Third World plantations transforming the natives into wage slaves tagging this strange alchemy progress
now this latest incarnation of Morley’s Ghost stalking Bloomberg’s Metropolis haunts the neighborhoods with a wrecking ball of entitlement
razing our hood to build soulless high rises where they'll warehouse dead people ginned up on pilates, chai tea and elevating themselves through life scoring the latest fab yoga gear on the urban outfitters website
the frackers are gobbling the land
strip miners are gnashing away at the mountains
now the predators are eating our art
always famished never satiated the beast gnaws away at its **** scattering the bones of of the living
but this half assed midnight whitewash will never stand
already images of the holy ghosts scrawled onto the Wailing Walls of 5 Pointz are bleeding through the veneer of a landlords greed
and as the future tenants of the proposed highrise columbarium snooze away the night dreaming of leading roles in star studded schemes
we’ll be taggin the streets reciting our righteous presence until our last dying aerosol breath escapes our paint stained hands