Freddogg Off The Chain

I want to shoot and not get shot. I want to compose not decompose. North Philadelphia is the neighborhood of my childhood. I’d love to visit the houses on Sergeant Street and Huntington Street where my parents made love and produced “Fred Heads.” I want to take pictures of houses and hoods. But I know they would kill me-not they-it only takes one impulse and life is beyond cheap-it is a video game.
There is Somerset Street that sat behind the outfield of Connie Mack Stadium and my grand parents house on Hemberger Street. I have no idea what a Hemberger is, possibly a 100 year misspelling or Max Schmelling’s German hometown.
I can go right to my other Grandfathers house at 4th and Lehigh where the big green sign Aramingo Avenue indicates open-air drug market. Shoot, I could make five thousand dollars a week real easy running drugs back to Sussex County but I’d have to pack more heat that Aunt Rose vacuuming a 1950 row house hallway where she couldn’t turn around only back up.
The neighborhood where my great grandparents lived under the elevated tracks in Fishtown was “so cool” but now it’s a kaleidoscope of bilingual dopes who speak pigeon English or Spanish sounding like actual pigeons and stupid ass hip-hop slang, no what I’m sayin?
That’s it I’ve talked myself into it. Is it possible you can’t walk down a public street inside a major American city without getting gunned down? Why are we worrying about civil war in Iraq? How is the bloodshed in our own cities any different?

Word to your Muther!