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    “This Little City”

     

    This little city, my little city with the siren soundtrack:

    where the B-more Black- birds smoke and mirrors lend the opium outcasts a purple hue; the opaque outrage at the state of the avenue.

    A city again lost when they lose and so we choose to get tossed

     in the latent lavender suited lies of our pink politicians.

    Forgetting their triple bra platform;

     are Sheila’s shopping habits the only notable mention?

     

    How ‘bout the corner at,

     right near where I was born at,

    the heads said the funk was never wack,

     “bad boy out” still echoes on the corner of Myrtle and Lafayette.

     

    Where I watched Anthony, Freddie, Ebony, Raymond, Reecy, Dominic and CeCe

    paint the corner crimson, riding it red.

    Here your strength comes from the size of your gun. It’s like Augustus said,

    the penis system- fuck the penal system!

    It’s an exercise in dick envy, a color fueled copout if you ask me.

     

    Enslavement by the Fuchsia Flaccid Fighters,

    So tell me,

    has the war on drugs gotten any lighter,

    has the city’s outlook gotten any brighter.

    Or has the problem just gotten Whiter?

     

    No sudden tsunamis, no valid excuse, no 500 industry so what’s the use?

    A city centered around violet violence, idiocratic ignorance,

     the magenta media and a mislead lineage.

     

    My eyes too saturated to see it my heart to held fast to believe it.

     

    And understand me now, cause I’m not about to retreat,

     it’s just the time to get to the meat.

    You see this little 80 mile hole is the realest home that I’ve ever known.

    It’s the only place that my conscious has grown.

    All around the world and back again,

    no matter the distance I still hear my first lady beckoning.

    Nurturing naturally has left me singed by the hometown conflagre—

     so still I love it!

    Still I won’t leave it!

     

    This little city is still my little city, and the siren plays on…

    About The Author

    DeJuan Clark

    Persecution Avenue

    is a pseudonym/nom de plume for a creatively diversified artist who resides in Baltimore, Maryland.  His nuanced and layered poetic and spoken word pieces tend to depict “relatable instances of masculine strength and urban struggle.”  He defines himself in this way, “I am a classically educated multi- platform, multi- genre freelance writer; currently, penning academic, business, creative and technical endeavors, full-time.  Both professional and powerful, my writing is a living testimony to the effectiveness in combining an urban upbringing with international, pragmatic experiences.”  Learn more about Persecution Avenue in publisher, bill berry’s interview, “Conversation with Persecution Avenue.”  http://aaduna.org/summer2014/conversations/persecution-avenue/