From a True Baltimorean

A landscape poem I wrote in 2017 that was more of a venting session of every problem I had with the city I was born and raised in before I learned to love it.

Photo by ActionVance on Unsplash

There is nothing in Baltimore city. 
There are tall sky ass kissing buildings. 
There are motor cars with faded and chipped paint. 
There’s men who hold their lovers tight and close 
when on the side walk and there are even some gentlemen 
who will walk to the edge of the sidewalk. 

And on the absolute corners of the sidewalk is no one—
the homeless you man you looked through like
an empty pickle jar washed out with bleach
because of his armor of trash bags—
shinny and wet with back alley 
dumpster juice and urine. 

I see sketches of people drawn
with chalk and only an small audience 
of numbered yellow plates that caution everyone 
like watch your step signs in the middle of the electronics isle 
of a super center Walmart. There are even commissioners 
of these concrete chalk portraits that remain anonymous 
to this day. They’re on their back in bed, 
missionary style and spread eagle. 

They’re anonymous to everyone
with roofs over their heads
but not to the homeless.
But their voices have less weight 
than a parcel of dust 
on the head of a pin needle 
to the police. 

Baltimore is the red headed stepchild 
who got the job without an interview 
only because it’s father owns the company. 

It does not have a golden gate bridge 
that’s majestic at sun rise and a carousel 
of orgasmic illuminations against moonlight. 
It does not have the privilege of housing the most 
powerful man now— every four years—the most glorified 
and joked on punchline in the world. 

It does not raise that good ole cancerous American patriotism
of innocence, hardiness, and perseverance at the thought of its name. 
Whether it be by war or alien invasion it is destroyed, that will be all.
To the point where my stench is more memorable to tourist. 

There will be no “New Baltimore” 
or any attempts to revive something already dying. 
No one will sing about Baltimore because of Baltimore. 
No one will mourn Baltimore because of Baltimore. 
No one will remember Baltimore generations after it’s ruin.
Only because there has been no record of any given person 
bothering to remember nothing. 

Believe me, because of the blonde house wife 
who catches the subway to Mondawmin Mall
every day at Noon, and drops a quarter 
by the dirt caked homeless man
but hesitates a glance at him 
the way cave men probably 
observed the first fire. 

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