...my big bro walked with his hair falling over his intense eyes, his head nodding to black sabbath's war pigs blaring from his silver boombox that sat at the nook of his shoulder, his hand expertly coming around to keep a hold of the handle...
...i walked with him, 10 years old and smoking the weed he let me hold, as he stopped to slap hands with the gaggle of dudes with long hair, metallica jersey's and cut off denim jackets. they had their own boom box going... a big silver double cassette boom box that the godly dean sat on like it was his throne... he smiled and held his hand out for my brother... his stubble like velcro for strings of hair that stuck to it... the rest of his mane fell over his bare back and chest...
...homage little man, dean said, putting his hand out for the weed i was pulling... he was chomping on some weed himself, and passed it over to one of the guys behind him to smoke ours... it was the way we stated a tribe... in our neighborhood... back in the day...
...smoke and spit kept us bonded... a platoon in the midst of astoria, queens, to keep our families safe, other neighborhood kids in check, and good times rolling...
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