7AM AND THE CITY PICKS UP
The colombian brews up in all the moms. all the pops. all the scragey wooden boxes with names carved and burnt in the pantries. dried blood years old stains the wood darker than darkness. the damn kids who work these floors, button the old cash reggie buttons, deal with constant cobwebs cause its a sin to kill spiders here. ask the old man if you got questions. (you dont wanna ask the old man nothing!)
The colombian drips its black molasses over yellow white teeths of the mashing local masses. every fuckin morning, y’all! 5am scrubbin the floors for 6am skillets firin for 630am stand tall for the regular steppin into the hall. between old sacks of basic shit and new ones. potatoes, flour, sugar, whatever the fuck! by the basics. buy american. fit in if ya can. dont and deserve what you got comin’. (maybe a big mouth of colloquial jam).
Ya. its cruel out there. its real though, its really real. guess what? you gotta deal! we got clocks run outta time…hands groping for the light, time wont stop motherfucking moving. the toxins ull purify her, the river of the street.
Was hard to even downtempo out of the colloquial expressed here and there and afore. hard to shut the door on it. the artist rendition was poor, sadly drawn out, she was bad at drawin’ it. Maybe it was the fifth bombay, no more tonic. just gonna water her down, said the poorly conceived logic of this dirty down home skinny ripped jean locally loved chick. drunk and every guy became a prick. drunk but not yet sick. get ready she’ll rip your heart out only to take a generous lick of your ticker, get the old bitch to quicker tick. that cool kinda hip synonymous with sick! Thats madre mad maddy. know her name, laddy. know her name if you know anythin at all!
On the streets the homeless, friendless of course the gps locates maddy on a skid row corner at high noon working chore in glass cylinder. mad addicted sometimes! episodic! got shown up, really most of the days, all of the nights, mad madre she believed she was showing up, we believed, for someone to believe in, yes it was her. she inspired faith. goddess touched. maybe the eighth.
Well she saw us through lines endless before city agency doors. This citys dropouts would fill floors and floors. Then the lines saw mad maddy…this time shown up by metrosexual bluetooth blackberry boygirls blown up. Yup. Sorry to say, they took her stained glass away. Poor maddy, sad saddy. But she dont care, they can just stare, her world continues to spin, spin spun, the tales, the fun, anything we had not done she had us do, we had it done.
If only we had her still, #8 child of light we say, cause if only would save lives. Pick up the streets, its a washout! Madre back in our lives, in our faces. Poverty of spirit, she erases. There by the federal building so many cops out in force, passive in their aggression, of course. Within seconds bust some dealer long overdue on the corner where the Hondurans claim territory. The Hondurans (that’s another story).
Yet all is not so clean, not so neat. Be afraid. Mothers flick cc’s. Houses raided, feel the heat. Children learn street science early, sisters they wept — they weep! Fathers look real strong or tried during shoots, for local papers. Later tied off and overdid it and died off. Uncut hit the street again like it does, like it did, like it always will, once in a while.
Some just got along but truly hated, felt hate incoming, vented hate outgoing. Others no showed or showed and were hated. Doors were gated, communities walled off. Still others loved madly behind these walls. Madre herself got back there and fell in love with a junkie, sadly, became half-mad of her original madness, got numbed small by suffering and sadness. Only for a while, dont worry. Madre maddy is radical, shes fucking savvy. She knows how to dodge a bullet, a boyfriend fronting steel rims before weak game. Ill be the one rolling out on steel, maddy assured herself. Like bigger-than-life madre by little children, painting half their nails while they slept, they would sincerely miss the kind of presence and house she kept. He would make bitch his mantra. No telling how many times. Predictable, mundane, hiding behind the pain.
Collect all the tears that you can, if you will. Please. So to offer toward healing of hearts. We need them! Remember all this shit happens for a reason, whether painful insane. We cannot measure it by days necessarily, but if we work together there may still be a chance. Maybe the sun made it possible? while the wind blew right by. while the tide got influenced. Got forced.
You stood by my side. By choice, not by force. Colombian brewed all night. By itself i think? We have locked and loaded the coffee grind so long it has come into its own natural rhythm, brews itself and a goddamn good cup at that! Working overtime all night, maybe could use the human touch again. Observe. Experience the texture — more like molasses or jellyfish extension to half your energy, sapped and unaware, might find yourself sitting half of every day, watching mindless TV foreplay on black grounds of roasted earth.
Whole is not too much, rounded out, no doubt. Maddy madre reappears, realigns us from our fears. Fast! she races to one tree (up on hill). If you dont blink twice, you might see her through the window sill. What a goddamn gorgeous pole dancer, drop dead hot for romance. Culturally felt, honored, unified melt. Down her strong soft thighs a true natural tone she set so clear so dear so fresh young thrill! never marked for the kill. Too swift, mad maddy. savor (the flavor of murder). take a picture. you cannot capture her all of her. you must anyway, with your trademark call out. Hold it now, hold still, thatta girl…
To you we are devoted. 7am in the city.
That is strong, and from a different world than mine: I couldn’t have written it, but I can appreciate the special talent of the person who did.
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Robin you are too kind. Today I take rest, the weekend, with Agatha Christie for medicine. And your words.