The Blue Angels

The famed Blue Angels,
pride of the United States Navy
soared and dipped and barrel rolled
with absolute grace
and perfection
barely a quarter mile
above the godless suburbs
of the mutant city
where crack had a
stranglehold
on the lower class
kids with unwanted kids.

I watched
mouth agape
breathing in softly
the fresh air 
that we never got in the city.

I wanted to be lost in their vapor trails,
anywhere but where I was.

My uncle Mike,

(the clean one) 

a retired Police officer

and most trustworthy man I knew

jabbed his bony elbow 

between two of my
soft young ribs.

"Pilots are usually faggots."

Sweat beads poured from
his prehistoric brow
and collected
in the beer foam
in his pencil-thin mustache.

And there went that dream.

I still can't

tell the difference between
my imagination
and reality.

All I can really remember
is being lured
against my will
from Northeast Philadelphia
in
wrist
and
ankle
shackles
to my own birthday party
where I lost a staged fist fight
to my tallest uncle
who'd just escaped rehab.

Everyone laughs
or pretends to
and the backyard wreaks
of gutless broken
humans and hair spray.
The pool is overflown with bits of
styrofoam and and sunburned toddlers.

dull blades wade gently at the bottom.

All males above the age of fourteen
are double-fisting bottles
of malt liquor
and chants of, "Nigger"
come from behind the crumpled frame
of a burned down
tool shed
where 
the grown ups
sorely compete
in a game of horseshoes
and trashcan lid ultimate frisbee.  

The women all look exactly the same
to me at this age;
gold,
black leather,
black eyes,
and a couple extra chins.
They show off
and enjoy the potato salad
that's been baking in the sun
since before noon.

It's nearing four O'clock
and the cooler
once filled with liquor and lube
now contains just few
12oz floaters
and brown chunks
of melting ice

that I use to
stop the swelling.

Nobody talks about
mom-mom's cancer.

Or how
they're
killing the kids.