fall in brooklyn: biz markie and the little rascals circa 2010

dear readers,

did you know biz markie was dj’ing at brooklyn bowl this past thursday. i intended to go, but exhaustion plus the rain won out.  nobody beats the biz.  you missing out if you aint seen the wiz.  really though, nobody beats the biz for his perennial, otherworldly optimism, grimy as fuck but actually and 4real sweet.  nobody beats the biz, except that is, for the u.s. copyright hawks and an ever narrowing first amendment protection for hip hop and sampling.  but that’s another post.

you want to know about america? here’s a poem, an impressionistic painting of the youths i encountered the other day in prospect park:

did you see them from around the bend?  the band of little kids, i think there was like ten.  the littlest one with the mohawk, on him they were getting it in.  laughing but the three on one enacted rape scenes were all state pen. did you see them from around the bend?

the, the bridge, the the the bridge.  adults ignored the high pitched mauling, but i let them know i could see them, which didn’t stop them, but did give them pause.

when the first cop car came the one little man pulled up a pout with a story.  i lost my two friends playing hide and go seek, he shoulda got an oscar, the bravado, jazz and glory.  then they climbed the rooftop, overlooking the road.  where joggers and walkers even horses strode.  and the dreadfully underserved children flung curses like tomatoes at the normal parade.

i walked up the slope, past their perch on the roof of an abandoned large shed, roof half covered in branches, it would have been beautiful, in a lord of the flies kind of way, if not for the hard to stomach bleatings of the vile little mouths.  i prayed for these children.  for these children acting out.  and i waved.  cupped palm, outstretched arm, a queen.  game recognize game, and looks ain’t always what they seem.  one by one they waved back like the crew of young princes and the one princess they were.

except for the one.  for whom darkness may be the only sun.  he cursed like a sailor, like a tailor possessed, no thread, still fixing zippers on tattered souls.  these words may have power, hot iron to fold.  too young to be this old.  too little to be this cold.  as the setting sun drew it’s crest on the sky behind them, red hues like smoky eyes emblazoned in the image of children, i heard a siren, police cars passed to find them, if only the wind would carry them away, unbind them.

this one goes out to them.




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