Stoned by no Rosetta, merchants allowed through the fence learn to misspeak “black speak,” in Edgar’s harbor village, at HipHop Fish & Chicken on Route number 4 × 10. “Baby Girl” becomes XX. “My Man” assumes all XY. For salt & pepper curls, & baby stroller crowds, their broadcast is the same: “Baby Girl, your diabetes is ready.” “Main Man, your stroke order is up.” They know their audience: french fried lives, french fried luck, french fried us. They know corner markets of cornered markets, seldom scale the wall. Their shit is always hot. Their shit is always cheap. Their shit is always landmark of poison in pens, along with: windows wearing boards, hubcaps leaning curbs, the sound of “bitch,” the sound of “mother- fucker,” the sound of “niggah” sounding off, projectile vomiting from children’s lips — our hush puppy young, made beasts behind these bars. Some days you will see them, dirt bike knights, riding Edmondson Avenue, armor-less. They are wheelies, jousting against traffic, wheelies, jousting against stop- lights, gas tanks bleeding out on stretchers, as sirens serenade, metal flies hover. There are skeletons of chickens scattered on the ground. There are meeting bones of children fractured in the street, cordoned off. This is urban warming. This is underwear in exhibition, pants saddened to sag, hanging off ass cracks, like wet clothes on a line. This is the ecology of locks, since our country is locks, since our color is locks, since this block is locked. When your order is up, you will eat anything tossed inside the cage.
Urban Warming BY TRUTH THOMAS
