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49 gangsters My dream was to sail above the law sparrow hawk riding spring gusts giddy with freedom like Legs Diamond in the Catskills or the Gallo gang in Brooklyn when we were young Sundays on the way to swim we’d drive past the abandoned coal yard on Flatbush Avenue and Father would look serious and say That’s where Joey Gallo makes moonshine and I’d picture a wizard counterfeiting light: a bloodshot god cranking out the stars . . . And still even though we’ve learned they’re all ignorant scavengers scuzzy as buzzards I can itch with envy (bending to peck my time clock yet again) of Joey and Legs and Pretty Boy Floyd and all those who shake their hoods and fly for a feathered minute among the charged clouds of crime which shows that while we may grow to know better our early humbugs still bubble and squeak like thugs in the alleys of our bones unplucked stinking and armed to the beak ...

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