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.