one month trial run says: boyle heights. a no furniture cave; a blank slate of soul. i am the sole Asian for miles. and when they drop me home, they point at the high gate fences, non-gentrification, and dogs barking; their nervous anxiety their sign of what’s coming.
I cross endless bridges into new age compounds, wander flame-ready hilltops, and step through these old streets alone. walk faster as dogs nip my heels. they bite me, but I can still fall in love.
home: so many formulations and configurations. familiar faces from deep down in the deep. neighbors from circles form circles around your radius.
sisterhood. brotherhood. sex. liberation. 2pac pulls me for years, but I find bookends back in Kendrick. Compton in my head, just the same; just another Californian — and we roll the iching like craps.