The hip kid, gold chain swanging yankees hat bill backwards coos bye bye baby
with a laden tongue at me across the
trash calle,
the piss calle,
the fumey centro calle,
coos bye bye like a little girl from her high chair, from the nursery school doorway painted blue and red with white lips, back in the states.
But the states are up north and I aint gonna marry you, aint your free ride, because I’m headed south, the ambassador knows you’re penniless (though centavos you kick gutterside)
and
baby I’m not, tried to grow up a long time ago, in the states.
It’s here I’m growing.
The hip kid is hip cause I don’t tell him to fuck the Yankees, he doesn’t know New York, only knows its where the flow goes, stop after DC, after Miami, or else the line goes overland through Texas, knows New York ‘cause some whore junky paid her day’s whore hundred for a rush,
the flow that trickled down.
South.
Into the
fingers of the hip kid’s brother,
never had time to hit the pocket,
before the fingers traded new swank dollars,
forget the colones, folks, what we need here is some stability,
dollars with foreign presidents for the fake gold chains, given to his brother for the kid’s trouble, for his pain,
which swangs now from the hip of the hip kid.
Yes, fuck the Yankees but the irony is lost in the bye bye,
this kid is better off not knowing that what he wants,
big money
what he wears over his greased hair,
big money,
what every damn fool wants,
big money
is represented by the big money team with their highly paid players from new york, big money is trees cut down in his aunt’s yard and
what’s making him cough,
and spit
on the street corner.