Since there's a consensus that "we" writers are a lying bunch, I'ma give y'all another "tall tale".

My brother's motto was ride it til the wheels fall off.  Not the tires mind you but the wheels.

Marco, my nutty lil brother
had his first full cardiac arrest at 29 behind bars.  Left in his cell wailing for three days caused the fatal scars.  

But since he'd only used 5 of his 9 lives, he partied every night ......
til the **** crowed at five.

Wet ones from the Gardens, clavo from up the street, pills of every shape and form...you name it...it was all candy, all sweet.

Suffice to say, he had a second full cardiac arrest, subsequent surgery...the doctors did their best.

And like Humpty he was glued back together to one piece only to head straight to the dealers house then the bar moments after his release.

Two more years running wild, boosting and muling, GTAing and thievin....I found him naked on the floor.... purple not breathing.

Dial 911...there ain't nothing to be done, still the pigs come and isolate me from the scene questioning me further...I'm being investigated for ******.....

I turned water into coffee this morning
and sat by the four corner light box
while reading a book
that taught me not to judge it by its cover.
The twisted crooks
that the story entails
the end trails of coke heads
that still drop slowly down the walls of
East Harlem.
I turned water into coffee this morning
and sat by the four corner light box
and all of its massive holiness
creating a halo around my entire body
without fearing a bullet would come rushing in
and **** me dead
I sat and read of another universe where
life and love still exist
but in a way I could not bring myself to condone
I turned water into coffee this morning
and sat by the four corner light box
with a dark shadow created by the backlit room
safe and in place
just wishing I was one of the twisted crooks
the story entailed
with my end trails in a little more danger
than when
I turned water into coffee this morning
and sat with the purity of my whiteness,
by the four corner light box
while reading another universe
and doing nothing about it.

moon over head
the streets of the barrio
cracked side walks
and loud music
construing
the eager young mind,
he was about nine.

El barrio, I write to you
an open notebook I fill
of memories
black and blue.

El barrio, you didn't
think i'd make it.
for only the forsaken
make it.

El barrio,
my neighborhood
flooded with dreams
of other places
names
without faces.

life
and all else
you will find
between these city walls.