New York is written on the walls.
This steel and electric boogaloo glides on through the sky
weaving past brick and rock
and I see it there: barely legible shout outs.
The Boogie Down is getting up.
There's no green here. No gardens. No wildlife.
But like desperate weeds I see graffiti
climbing from the cracks and achieving
its own spiritual ascension.
It creeps up the side of apartment 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.
They take precious care of their charges.
They fertilize them regularly while talking shit to the boys.
In the summer they let meringue 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.
They don't drink without watering the three foundations first,
Offering libations for all those that have gone before.
They care for the ever growing vines and brambles
with equally chaotic calculation;
pruning with whitewash, 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 street corner trees
and guarded, gated gardens.
All that is fine for them who have clear days
and singing birds
and the ever present sun in people's minds.
Let them escape it if they want to.
The Bronx is so hungry for light.
