10:15 - 4 Train from Mosholu Pkwy to Grand Central

New York is written on the walls. The four train glides on through the sky, weaving past brick and rock and i see it there: barely legibile shout outs. The Boogie Down is getting up. There's no green here. No gardens. No wildlife. Bit like desperate weeds i see grafitti climb from the cracks and assend. It creeps up the side of apartments buildings like its own version of central park Ivy. It settles, gathers, and thrives in little nooks like an east village garden. And in some places it is tended to. Places where the lines between rich and wealthy broadens like the hips and lips and noses and accents of those faithful gardeners. The gardeners take precious care of their charges. They fertilize them regularly while talking shit to the boys. In the summer they let merengue play from open windows and freestyle hip-hop from the front stoop. Everyone knows gardens grow best when sung to. They don't eat without eating among the Spanish Montana leaves. And they don't drink without wateringfoundation first, for all those that have gone before.

They care for the ever growing vines and brambles with equally chaotic calculation; pruning with whitewash, simultaneously culling the rot while giving reverence to the dead. And in the spaces they make, new limbs grow stronger, the blossoms bloom brighter, and the graffiti gardens grow taller, and taller, and taller out of the shadows. Like everything else they strive to reach upwards. Let Manhattan keep their copses and shaded paths. The Village can have their occasional streetcorner trees and guarded, gated gardens. All that is fine for them who have clear days and singing birds and the everpresent sun in people's minds. Let them escape it if they want to. The Bronx is so hungry for light.