Sores in the city that do not want to heal*

Bopping over the Brooklyn Bridge this eve listening hard (intermittently, with eyes closed, to the dismay of cyclists and fellow pedestrians) I took a break courtesy of East Flastbush Project and G-Unit hijacked E&J sippers. Thought to myself: I hope he doesn't candy coat em. The 112 collab was bad enuff.

That's when the mind switch to the pop tip.

Then I got tired and I hopped on the B52 perching on one of dem raised seats at the back of the bus. Please don't tell my mama. To her the back of the bus is the exclusive domain of the ragamuff and ruffian. Funny how her ex hubby/my eco-transport friendly father, when not biking or ole BMWing it, steps straight to the rear on Joe Metro, shades on, to stare at passengers who catch a glimpse of his unsuspecting eyes curiously swallowing them whole beneath not quite opaque lenses.

Can they see that chain from afar, Nigga unh?!?

My perch offered me an enviable view of Sunday evening Fulton Mall patrons exclusively brown and black except for that gay couple striding too many steps ahead of their adopted brown and black brood. Snowman T-Shirts galore. I would have cried but I ran out of tears a few weeks ago and not even copious consumption of Volvic will bring them back. One weekend soon I will gorge on much ballyhooed Framboise in the company of they-know-who-they-are and see if I can get the rivers to flow.

So who you'd rather be: the murdered or the murderer?

Trap or Die. A faulty syntactical relationship if I've ever said one and I, malaprop queen, have mumbled many, though PBK need not never know. The former necessitates the latter. Trap and Die. Conjoined in equanimity not contradistinction. No self determination here just championed, stunted-into-existence fate. Trap=Die.

And I'm not proud in fact I hate this route.

Last sunday @ African American Day Parade revelers demonstrated an exuberant appreciation for Chris Brown's "Run it"(okay), Juelz Santana (no surprises there) and Snowman t-shirts(???). Fulton St. and Adam Clayton Powell on one accord: death is an accelerated must.

Everybody here is infirm.

I can't breathe for the stench but I cannot sequester myself in Union Square or West Village any longer.

Snowman t-shirts=guaranteed negative chugeration.

*From "The Blackstone Rangers" by Gwendolyn Brooks