The ceiling fell down on Father’s Day. 

 

Wet sheet rock came crashing down over the bathroom entrance. The stampede of several black kids woke me up to find myself walking on water like Jesus. Water was coming down from upstairs like Niagara Falls about to burst through the walls.

 

The Dominican superintendent shows up about five minutes later and knocks on apt 11B for a minute before banging the door like 9/11 is about to happen again. A black woman opens the door with the annoyed look of a person who was disturbed out of a deep sleep. As if we’re not Martin Luther King or Nelson Mandela enough to get Civil Rights, she said she forgot to close the faucet. Without an apology, she closed the door as one of her naked kids looked up gleefully. 

 

Hopefully, that kid will grow up to protect her when she’s old and disabled.

 

He’ll protect her from the mindless running of children and water faucets.

 

This is what I’m doing for my mother on a day of rest.

 

The woman and her five kids were taken out of a homeless shelter and into a renovated apartment that rents monthly for $2, 800. Does welfare pay? Do taxpayers also pay for the tobacco that is mixed into marijuana? Leftover leaves and cellophane that contained a Philly Blunt cigar was thrown out to the streets but drifted to our windowsill from their apt with the satellite dish.  The cellophane has fingerprints but there’s no law against owning a cigar or cannabis on the verge of legal like in Colorado these days.

 

 

 

 

 

If I were the godfather of her babies they would be wired for reading and drawing instead of minds terribly gone to waste. I need more dots to connect the big picture in this account of Nation Building in The USA. I can’t prove the woman or other adults are smoking pot and might fall into a stupor while the kids might turn on gas ovens and then media déjà vu. The constant wild stomping of her kids equals a cry for Child Protection Services. How can I prove the mother needs Pre K to prevent her kids from becoming another crop of criminals to be harvested by batons and guns of law enforcement?

 

There’s more discipline at Riker’s Island Prison across the river from this building where colorful graffiti grows like separatism against whites in a country in Africa freed from apartheid. The F-Bombs and other profane slang make the super busy and money for hardware stores like Home Depot from purchases of paints and brushes.

 

It’s like a constant white wash by media worker drones that fail to illustrate African American football players highly paid to turn their backs on the protests of Native American Indians angered over the use of an ethnic slur called The Washington Redskins. If it was called The Washington Black Skins, oh, fill in the blank on this Race Card, mister owner of The Clippers, who got some threatening Tweets from around the world. Civil rights are not just for one color. Up the block is a church of black people opposite a Hispanic one! God orders them to stay apart from one another?

 

We, The People must apply to everyone or it means nothing, like Captain Kirk said.

 

Or is Democracy another way for the oppressed to become the oppressors?

 

Without hard evidence, what I believe is not admissible in a court of law. However, speculation and facts are going viral like anti-bodies against sickness. I once won a case without saying a word in a Bronx courtroom. The person who took me to the judge tried to murder me several times in the past because he was possessed by the devils called Schizophrenia and Selfishness aggravated by Crack Cocaine. This is a latter-day version of Cain versus Abel. My mother’s other son never showed remorse for the damage he inflicted on me. Blame his father who tried to drown me in my bathwater. I forgive and only wish to make with my life but my mother is challenged and that makes for a tag team of mental illness. As I related to a shrink, writing almost like Ann Frank draws out venom in my veins and makes me see clearly few possible answers. After I calmly presented problems, an African-American employee of the poorly designed program to house the homeless walked away far from Help Me Howard. He said it wasn’t his job.

 

All he does is to take some of the homeless out of shelters but he can’t take the shelters out of some of the homeless. This is a gloried tent city in The South Bronx of America.

Then The Law rode in after another formerly homeless family failed to pay thousands of dollars in back rent.  I saw a US Sheriff issuing eviction notices (less than Planet Earth as warned by the Paul Revere of Global Warming, the Vulcan Al Gore.)

 

Like 24 dollars and trinkets to Indians in exchange for Manhattan, the landlord offered 500 dollars and bunk beds to my elderly mother, a long time resident, to get her out so they can jack up rent to another transient family. They wanted to move her to the other side of the building where old time tenants were being concentrated (without leases in some cases and I need a lease to get state ID instead of walking around with a police report in my pocket.) The apartment offered was one flight of stairs and my mother would be home. But they broke their word and gave it to Mexicans (that might just be asked to move to another building so they can move in my mother at long last.)  It’s about making money in the shelter called Fort Apache as seen in a film starring bleeding heart liberal actor Paul Newman, Founding Father of The Hole In The Wall Gang.

 

By the way, 500 dollars in a tough economy is better than being homeless in Honduras.

 

I called 311 to report harassment and lack of services to an apartment where Little Sandy and The Polar Vortex took up residence through cracked windows. City inspectors warned the landlord’s representatives not to enter the apartment to interfere with an investigation or police will be called to make arrests. Two days later, our mailbox was ripped of the hinges like a supernatural fit of demonic anger.

 

In the lust of money, Paradise Management brought hell to us.

 

It’s Judgment Day now with no religion up my sleeves.

 

It’s my turn on the Fourth of July.

 

Say hello to my little pen.

 

BOOM!

 

There goes the neighborhood.

 

How To Put Americans On Police Line-ups Without Becoming Public Enemy # 1

 

Call this a case of poetic justice being the first warning shot read loud and clear.

This is improvising on my homework on creating a tour book to draw people to Sunnyside South Bronx by putting American Spirit on police line-ups.

 

Dream on if you think you have problems in The City That Never Sleeps.

 

Dream on, children of all ages…