clason point starving

Look at the 46 2 story houses
With front and back yards

Pinnacle of public housing
In the capital of the world

Should be declared a historic district
Where its residents celebrated 75th anniversary
With trips to Hot Millz for dolla dutches and frozen nemos

Hard to find fossils
When the authority sweeps and dumps all the guts
From last night’s remnants

All the highlights won’t have slo mo replays
From multiple angles just telephone
Rumors embellished louder than the next version

Unbiased according to local block legends
Who expired too soon

Believing myths created by concrete
Blocks designed to promote sense of ownership

When we don’t even lay claim
To every piece of lane twisted around itself

Wondering how the sunrise is so beautiful
In a view with sounds of shots

Fired at rivals bringing still raw beef
To late cookouts

Hardly any more hand to hand
Must employ next door neighbors as a lookout

Break off a piece of proper special package
Neighborhood watch feels sense of obligation
To maintain serenity of bake sales

Southeast part of Bronx right off Bruckner
Beginning of BX river parkway close proximity
To dirty 43rd Amadou’s spirit urges
You to identify yourself verbally

Before reaching for deadly wallet

Contained government issued ID
Will cuff you before stop and frisk

Right as about to go to the store for a glass of milk
Leaving yucky aftertaste
Where there should only be cavities
From too many penny candies

Inflated tenement wishes
Of sour power patch of land furnished

With ancient trees back to swampy farms
Western capitalism has usurped

Island vibes in a community based off
How fast and efficiently and silently is your hustle

Develop muscles from pulling your brother
Up by broken bootstraps caught in traps

Like rats who pack buddies
Searching for devil’s crusty bread
To make a warm grilled cheese
To accompany wonton soup

Sometime you gotta troop in order to find bags
Still lumpy with truth
Heavy with lies pungent odor

Grind will give
You sudor salty across beaten brow

No more pioneers holding keys to food
Western has found various ways to butcher the cow
Rack of ribs ready to be marinated

Easy to be sedated
Harder to stay awake

When your homies put you to sleep
Over the braggadocio you speak

Practice what you teach
How far can you reach

Gather as much as you can grab
Give me dap but don’t stand too close
For fear you might stab my crucial air

Needed to chew savor every molecular morsel
Mere mortals who stand in the middle

Of a seesaw trying to maintain balance
After numerous bitter shots to liver
Trying to filter all the waste

How safe is this place
Where everybody knows your name
Along with entire personal history

But if you put on that right beat
Even the most chiseled gangsta will tell you their story

Precise immaculate flow
Here we go again back to where we from

When knowledge is born
Innocence doesn’t contemplate a gun