Evolution of My Block

As a boy I bicycled the block w/a brown mop top falling into a tail bleached blond, gold-like under golden light, like colors of Noble Knights ’banging on corners, unconcerned w/the colors I bore—a shorty too small to war with, too brown to be down for the block. White Knights became brown Kings still showing black & gold on corners now crowned, the block a branch branded w/la corona graffitied on garage doors by the pawns. As a teen, I could’ve beamed the crown, walked in w/out the beat down custom, warred w/my cousin who claimed Two-Six, the set on the next block decked in black & beige. But I preferred games to gangs, books to crooks wearing hats crooked to the left or right fighting for a plot, a block to spot & mark w/blood of boys who knew no better way to grow up than throw up the crown & be down for whatever.