Love Songs
( poem and photo by Rodney DeCroo)
A middle aged man and woman
at the table next to me in the cafe
were talking about love songs,
as she sipped unsweetened tea
and he nibbled at his gluten free muffin.
How they couldn't stand listening
to them. How they promoted
co-dependency and unrealistic expectations.
How they were the mother of all cliches.
How they failed to appreciate mature love
like eating breakfast together in silence,
paying the bills and raising children.
How like love itself they were nature's
way of tricking us into reproducing
the species. How they were ridiculous
like young lovers staring idiotically
into each other's eyes over candelit
dinners as the food goes cold
or gnawing each other's faces
at street corners and train stations.
As I listened I pretended to read
the owner's manual for my new camera
between sips of black coffee.
And talking about cliches, what's
with old men and photography?
Why do we wander the streets
taking photos of strangers
as they perform day to day tasks
like catching the bus to work
or buying tomatoes at the market?
What are we looking for as we
as we spend our nights staring
at digitized faces while we crop and edit?
I wouldn't have had time for this
when I was young. I was too busy
staring into her eyes
and singing love songs.
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Cold Culture
By Brotha Monri
Greatly casted shadows from the shell of the city pose in the sunset,
A particular melancholy rests upon the bricks and concrete like light morning dew,
Old leathery fingers of a war vet named “Scrap Iron Willie” hold a sodden cardboard sign ,asking for charitable sustenance,
A 90s Hip hop symphony is heard thundering from speakers of a passing car like the voice of cultures past,
The scene explodes with laughter as old timers reminisce upon the remembrance of “Poochie Woods”and other legends of ghetto gladiators,
Youth representing the remnants of incarcerated fathers march in units of Retro Jordan’s , cellphones and
angry vapors steaming from Snapbacks and distressed denim,
The hustlers jewelry glistens like Christmas lights under the street light as he sits in his chariot plotting world domination with his committee of felonious philosophers with stolen identities,
Names that were lost in times of auction blocks and blacks being bred like oxen,
The ballads whisper softly as grandma pulls sizzling soul food from a cauldron of timeless family ties,
She hums songs of Mahalia Jackson and Aretha Franklin as the lyrics sprinkle down upon her grandchildren’s ears like diamond earrings,
Palestinian markets chime as the doors swing open like saloons of malt liquor and blueberry swisher sweets,
In the parking lot 5 nervous policeman gather around yellow tape,
A burgundy Buick sits sadly riddled with bullets and shattered glass,
163 pounds of cold mahogany flesh and cornrow braids under a Raiders fitted hat lay in its seats staring out at infinity,
Blood encrusts his fingers as he poses in a deathly pose of proven street respect,
He always said he’d die for this game,
True to his words his life martyred for the warriors of the avenues and city blocks,
Now he joins the legends of the fall,
The abandoned buildings smile as the air is infused with another soul of a soulful samurai,
These are the canvases that are painted by the times in which we tread,
Jotted notes describing decaying life and rejuvenated death,
The circle of life force and fearless street titans,
The genius of proverbial wizards exacting spells of financial sorcery,
A ballad of beautifully carved caskets,
Coffins containing cadavers of a charismatic culture of commanding kings and queens conquering the curses of the forgotten kingdom,
Listen and you can hear the drums of the tribes of 24th street gangsters,
The revenge of the fallen are prioritized above the rejected murmurings of a broken cycle,
The legend of lost life must live on in the name of namesake,
Poochie Woods would have never let a man cross his name,
But the consequences are crossing over to the land of the legends,
The legends lost for their reputation and found for their dedication to a cold culture…
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