I am from the edge where trash accumulates. Forming mounds and releasing stench. It sits there as if it read that New York Times article naming Mott Haven the next frontier.
But few last here, because of the smell in the summer. Because of the rats in the winter. They don’t take the time to uncover my spot. This place free of YEEEERRRRRRSSSS free of new beards and trendy beers.
This small ledge where I stand at times staring at water that seems unfamiliar. On this ledge I sometimes admire the moon asking la Diosa Luna to let me see in the murk some beauty. Longing for the way that water flirted with greens and blues.
These hues so deep that one coat of paint would not do. But this hue my heart understood. A blue familiar because before being stripped from the place that eats the sun and spits out platanos my spirit knew that we would lose. But it is so many blues…