Evolution of My Block

As a boy I bicycled the block

w/a brown mop top falling

into a tail bleached blond,

gold-like under golden light,

like colors of Noble Knights

’banging on corners, unconcerned

w/the colors I bore—a shorty

too small to war with, too brown

to be down for the block.

White Knights became brown

Kings still showing black & gold

on corners now crowned,

the block a branch branded

w/la corona graffitied on

garage doors by the pawns.

As a teen, I could’ve beamed

the crown, walked in w/out

the beat down custom,

warred w/my cousin

who claimed Two-Six,

the set on the next block

decked in black & beige.

But I preferred games to gangs,

books to crooks wearing hats

crooked to the left or right

fighting for a plot, a block

to spot & mark w/blood

of boys who knew no better

way to grow up than throw up

the crown & be down for whatever.