Poetry: Where the Wild Things Iz

Cloud the house with aerosol fumes and
pay your decorator with another beer.
The hangover is fading and a new Flint
is hazy.

The bricks seemed like a prison then,
my savior has risen since.
The Weather Ball burns bright
for sinner's sins.
Where the Wild Things Iz
is "disguised" if not
"hidden" then.

Because we praise potholes
like broken levees,
flooding streets with our feet,
pedaling Schwinns, mission's heavy.

Don't buy a Chevy, ban cars completely,
rate downtown PG, blind yourself with CG —
I will fortress the ghetto, build a moat
through this hell hole.

Where anything goes, freedom grows.
Welcome to Flint, Welcome home.
Whisper mantras of Ohm and lay new bricks
on old (roads). We can rebuild from the ruins
and brag in our poems.

Whisper mantras of Ohm and lay new bricks
on old (roads). We can rebuild from the ruins
and brag in our poems.

The world is yours as soon as you take it.
Fame's an art, raise your pen and make shit.
In the first place, we're 2nd class in the worst ways.
Third most dangerous at the new craze of
subverting recruits' old phrase —
"an army of one," is one in a million.

Get ill and start chillin'
we're fleas in the rat race, plague the new world
infect head space.

I'll be your villain, asking for
heroes, surviving and thriving
as the population dwindles.

So I've swindled you once again
into hearing my plea
about the city whose police are ready
to flee. On the drop of the dime,
or the crack of a gun,
Flint-town is earning its pride
and proving we are number one.