I lived in Brooklyn for 9 years. 9 whole years and 17 winters. Seventeen winters and three summers. Worked in Harlem and took the train. Took the train for two hours. For 2 hours. There and back to Crown Heights, the 4 train back to the end of the line, to the end. Nearing the end, I became depressed. I lost my job; I lost my jobs. Rent was too damn high. 9 years of giving my checks to the landlord. Dont they owe us this land? Dont we belong to this land, the land before time, before the times. 9 years ago, I was 21. Fresh, didn’t know the times, couldn’t feel the highs, until—I felt the times and knew the highs, and lows. I took on a project three years ago. Three words: Black Boy Be. I needed to get out of depression and ride the tide, and found time to listen. Who was speaking this time? Who would listen this time? My hair was three years long. By year 4, I was ready to leave New York. I took on retail (again). I worked in retail, again. I wasn’t being myself, again—nothing brought back the young boy, nothing brightened up the old joy. I started writing on the concrete, I started lighting things on fire. Leaves were my chosen artifacts. I was too afraid of burning books. Worked at a library for 4 years. Worked at a black library with anti-black peers. Ended up ending the dreams. Ended up dying in my dreams. Brooklyn, Is where I spent my twenties. Most of that time, I had less than twenty. I packed my house out with sixty friends. My momma told me that I didn’t have not one of sixty friends. “You only got one friend and he in Atlanta,” she would say. I was only able to visit him for six hours. I’ve been away for 9 years. New York keeps a hold on you like that. New York keeps you broke like that. New York will get you broke like that. Shoutout to the chicken boxes at 2AM at Kennedy Fried Chicken. Saved a broke boy like me. I wonder what will save me now…