10 speeds
kickflips
&
splinters—
hanging on the post that flashed that orange hand,
sliding down bannisters like it were a sled on a december snow day.
no scissors
or
knife
so biting off the tough plastic to expose
the tube of icy goodness—
each flavor in the freezer like a
splendiferous rainbow.
no cabin fever
or
douchebag allergies
that wanted to mess up spring nights out
&
summer vacations to house parties
or
skinny-dips in the backyard pools—
whether it were down the shore
or
atop the roof of that housing building
there were suntan lines
vodka snuck in water bottles
cutoff jean shorts
&
belly button piercings—
the stove was off
the speaker was on
through the speaker
pizza hut
or
maybe instead a quick stop at
little caesars
or
wah yoan
or
order duck from
sen hai
across town—
roaming square-candles in palms
the strong stream from those IPAs
the bloated belly from those pork belly tacos
bopping
up
&
down
to that block music
like a pogo stick on a trampoline—
a purposeful place
sun-kissed children swung smiles
like baseball bats
or
like a friendly mace
there were still viejos slamming dominoes
a poker table
with starch in glass bowls
&
paper
&
metal pieces
on top of each other
trying to figure out who had the last tile—
grinning new parents with their infants
being raised in that purposeful place
&
in such a nostalgic way.
a way that let them smell
the masala boiling
let them salsa to a marc anthony hit
as dapper men one-two stepped
or
cumbia
as the flyest women
who were a class above the rest sashayed
or
heard a
“how ya doing!!!”
from a brolic, brooklyn voice seeped in solidarity
or
heard hypnotizing narratives of more different lands
as a person originally from dakar
spoke to a person originally from cebu city
&
saw how baths of turmoil and frantic imperialistic history
couldn’t control their openhearted interaction—
a way that let these infants be raised
where they could see a tomorrow
a tomorrow that was bright but
a tomorrow that didn’t need to be assimilated
by force-fed-values for political interests
because…
yesterday’s water-colored portrait was plastered
to that distinct wall of graffiti that
EVERYONE HAD LEFT A TAG ON
not stolen culture to be made better
but people…
it’s always about the people…
the people who knew this was celebration.
