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Marty, Joey and Jesse

The boy kings cruise in Marty’s Camaro,

body tattooed with primer scars. The real

story lies under the hood: nothing but

polished chrome bought part by part as weekly

money was pocketed. Jesse’s riding

shotgun, a bright city navigator

on nightclub patrol, searchin 18th for

Miss Scarlett Monkey Wrench doing the grind.

Spread across cramped backseat, Ambro Joey

sports a backwards cap, Marty’s being cold,

saying, “What you doin in that Yankees

hat, you act more like a Tigers fan, no?”

speeding to beat a light turnin orange

kaleidoscopic wail turquoise whore singe

But it ain’t a cholo, or the cops, just some

brothers snaking low, running a Dodge Dart

with store-bought siren hand held on rooftop,

scaring folks outside of the brotherhood.

A pull alongside rolls down the window,

some crazy-ass mofos representing,

asking Joey, “You an Ambro, aintcha?”

“I ain’t no Ambro. I ain’t shit no more.”

But the brother thinks different, draws his

luger, fires three times. Only way Marty

knows Jesse got hit is the splash: finding

out blood burns the eyes, finding out blood blinds.

solitary ghost moonlight drive by

wheels California street drag traumatize

The worst part wasn’t the hospital: brown

brick storage house of South-side casualties,

where twin orderlies pinned Marty to flat

stretcher bed — a case of mistaken wounds.

The worst part wasn’t seeing Jesse, steel

plate grey placed in his skull, can’t remember

Marty and Joey’s names, escaped his head

with the viscera on vinyl carseat.

The worst part was telling Jesse’s ma, no

anglo cop could explain parts of Jesse

dried in Marty’s hair, her hatred so real

it carried a smell: ozone, molten lead.

Marty says his stories gotta be told

with Jesse’s head placed between him and life.