Gang-boys
A tree marked
with a giant 7
and a giant 0
The 70’s came through here.
A stop sign tagged with T-Flats
no longer stops traffic
but serves to warn you
intruder
that you’re entering
Tortilla Flat territory.
Better yield.
I lived in the middle of gangs
sandwiched between
deadly loyalties
to the red, blue, the brown.
My childhood riddled
with gang-boys
who think, believe they are men
but each one
really a man-child.
Sagging pants
weighed down
by the gats they tote.
Glock, revolver in one pocket
bandana representing in the other.
Sporting perfectly pressed
blinding bright white t’s
cut-off dark work pants
with creases cutting the air,
hair shiny, sleek
classic like the filero,
thick white sport socks pulled knee-high
and dark knit gloves in the summer!
I knew some of them
talked and laughed with them
I wasn’t
allowed to befriend them
not allowed to cross
their path to nowhere good.
Willie, aka Will or Big Slim
with his pet iguana
and his magnetic smile
couldn’t help but want to talk to him
or have him talk to you.
Always very friendly and funny
but fled to the ‘burbs
to get away from the life-
to save his life.
Either on foot,
covered in thick Nike Cortez,
or on bikes
these lost boys
left their trail
of graffiti, fear and loathing.
To see them was to know
they’d lose their life
they’d lose the street battle
leaving loved ones
the community
the city
to continue
living the war.
A war they can’t see from their graves
or the luckier ones, from their cells.
A war
fueled by the push and pull
of la pandilla, la clica, the “set”
with its utter freedom
to roam the streets, incite fear
break the rules,
break faces,
break the bank with their street hustle
gives a young boy
a dose of “manhood” to the head.
To be manly and supported in that
to be protected by your brothers in that.
How cool to be “cool” for all the girls.
Cause, who doesn’t love a bad boy (even secretly)?
Those gang-boys
who think, believe they are men
but each one
really a man-child
pushed by tradition,
cause Smiley
has Baby Smiley and Lil Smiley
looking up to big tough tatted dad.
Pushed by threats,
pushed into throwing down,
blow by blow
dying block by block.
Sacrificing their lives
disrespecting that of their enemy’s
representing their hood hard
just to be worthy of respect.
In the end
after all the fundraising:
car washes
knocking on my door collecting funds
to bury her fallen son
“Here, here is a $5, I don’t want
to see anymore pictures of him,”
can’t look at her bloodshot eyes
After all the R.I.Ps have been sewn
sprayed on, etched on
to car windows, t-shirts, caps
sweatshirts and tattooed on
brown and black skin
After all this
who thinks about
respect?
Who thinks of the boy’s set?
Just a lonely painful
memory, relived
of how a gang-boy
who thought, believed he was a man
was really a child.
with a giant 7
and a giant 0
The 70’s came through here.
A stop sign tagged with T-Flats
no longer stops traffic
but serves to warn you
intruder
that you’re entering
Tortilla Flat territory.
Better yield.
I lived in the middle of gangs
sandwiched between
deadly loyalties
to the red, blue, the brown.
My childhood riddled
with gang-boys
who think, believe they are men
but each one
really a man-child.
Sagging pants
weighed down
by the gats they tote.
Glock, revolver in one pocket
bandana representing in the other.
Sporting perfectly pressed
blinding bright white t’s
cut-off dark work pants
with creases cutting the air,
hair shiny, sleek
classic like the filero,
thick white sport socks pulled knee-high
and dark knit gloves in the summer!
I knew some of them
talked and laughed with them
I wasn’t
allowed to befriend them
not allowed to cross
their path to nowhere good.
Willie, aka Will or Big Slim
with his pet iguana
and his magnetic smile
couldn’t help but want to talk to him
or have him talk to you.
Always very friendly and funny
but fled to the ‘burbs
to get away from the life-
to save his life.
Either on foot,
covered in thick Nike Cortez,
or on bikes
these lost boys
left their trail
of graffiti, fear and loathing.
To see them was to know
they’d lose their life
they’d lose the street battle
leaving loved ones
the community
the city
to continue
living the war.
A war they can’t see from their graves
or the luckier ones, from their cells.
A war
fueled by the push and pull
of la pandilla, la clica, the “set”
with its utter freedom
to roam the streets, incite fear
break the rules,
break faces,
break the bank with their street hustle
gives a young boy
a dose of “manhood” to the head.
To be manly and supported in that
to be protected by your brothers in that.
How cool to be “cool” for all the girls.
Cause, who doesn’t love a bad boy (even secretly)?
Those gang-boys
who think, believe they are men
but each one
really a man-child
pushed by tradition,
cause Smiley
has Baby Smiley and Lil Smiley
looking up to big tough tatted dad.
Pushed by threats,
pushed into throwing down,
blow by blow
dying block by block.
Sacrificing their lives
disrespecting that of their enemy’s
representing their hood hard
just to be worthy of respect.
In the end
after all the fundraising:
car washes
knocking on my door collecting funds
to bury her fallen son
“Here, here is a $5, I don’t want
to see anymore pictures of him,”
can’t look at her bloodshot eyes
After all the R.I.Ps have been sewn
sprayed on, etched on
to car windows, t-shirts, caps
sweatshirts and tattooed on
brown and black skin
After all this
who thinks about
respect?
Who thinks of the boy’s set?
Just a lonely painful
memory, relived
of how a gang-boy
who thought, believed he was a man
was really a child.
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