“Empire State of GRIME” – a poem by Camille R.E.

February 26th, 2026

The author’s free-verse poem is written as an informal letter to tourists from a native New Yorker, (and sparing no bitter opinion).

___

Ed Yourdon, CC BY-SA 2.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

Empire State of GRIME

by Camille R.E.

✴︎

Keys said, in New York,
the concrete jungle is where dreams are made of
and there’s nothing you can’t do.
But it’s fuck New York.
Tourists get out my way.
Y’all wonder what these streets are made of?
Well shit, I can tell you.

Cement and tar.
With potholes so deep you could dive.
I pay two-seventy-five apiece for each bumpy ride.
I could press that red button or not,
but this bus might still miss my stop.
If you take Metro, you can tell ’em:

Did I lie?

An empty sidewalk? Empty bus?
Seeing those is a myth to us.
Man, we be crowded so close we nearly hug.
And that’s why I gotta wear the meanest mug.

I walk mad fast. I look straight.
You know.
Just in case
if a nigga in a tired-ass Nike fit wanna holla at me.

……………………………………………………………………………………….“Boo!”

Worse than them naggy-ass salesmen in the malls–
they hella scary.

These dudes…

I pray those men always stay cheap,
and never buy themselves cars.

Please, god, please forbid.

Enough people boom down the street,
showing off speakers
‘cause I know it can’t be those playlists.

They just marinate in their seats,
rev-rev-revving up those same slow,
busted-up hellcats.

Like damn, I know them backseats reek
from you playing all that shit
and wasting all that gas.

And these streets are loud enough without it–y’know?

What’s peace?

Couples bark and brawl their way down the block.
Each night, my neighbor’s yelling hexes out her window.
Crackheads argue with someone who’s there…
or not.

All day. All day! I hear babies. Honking. Sirens.
Outside, the streetlights blink between WALK and FOCUS
’cause I know these noises better than the thoughts I think.

And I get too many migraines for this.

The pavements are packed with people I could’ve known,
but I push through these crowds all alone.
I’m talking shit with friends on the phone
’cause they don’t live here, so I have no one at home.

I choke on the stench of car-exhaust and rat-rot.
And I’m stingy with touch. I don’t know what y’all got.

I’m a city girl. I’m so angry. I’m so rough.
(Just want someone to look me in the eyes long enough).
And for the tourists, I’ve got the meanest streak.
(‘Cause I’m jealous. Y’all get to find this place just…

……………………………………………………………………………..……………pretty).

That’s one thing ‘bout New Yorkers though:
We’re a beautiful sight.
Like goddamn! We be dressed so nice.

I would tell y’all,
“you should be in a magazine.”

But like a bag,
y’all carry that frown around–
just mugging at me.

So, I’m looking down or side-eyeing back.
Like, ‘fuck is your problem?
(Pretty ass…)

Mannn, fuck New York!
If you want me gone, then say that.

On some real shit:
You’re breaking my heart, and I don’t play that.

This is my home.
I’ve moved out,
but Mom still lives down the street.
The guys at the corner stores–
they always ask about me.

I’ve shared so many last kisses with exes in Prospect Park.
Fuck museums. The graffiti on these brick walls is my art.

In front my first school, a boy once asked to go on a date with me.
I remember, I ran straight down that block.
Tuh! I was so young and gay and silly.

I’m so much older now, but I keep all these places close.

On my way to work,
I ride past the same pink trees I’ve always known.

So New York, if you want me to leave this all behind,
just say that.

‘Cause comparing my wages to my bills,
I just might have to arrange that.

Rent is high. Winters are cold. And don’t
get me started on the other kind of snow.
Them white people sure are buying us out.
Even Brooklyn is becoming Manhattan now.

These new towers make me shrink at their pride.
This big city’s tryna squeeze me into
someone half my size.
For all these narrow and mean streets,
my heart spreads too wide.

Bet you couldn’t tell with this bitch-face and blunt tone,

but I’m actually so kind.

Lately, I’ve had this urge to climb
’cause I’m so dissatisfied
when I look up–to find my eyes
cropped by all these cranes in the sky.

Thank you, Solange.
I’ve been waiting to say all this for so long:

How I’ve tried to run it away.
How I stand on rooftops
and sing my lungs away.
‘Cause with all these buildings and lights,
only when I’m above them do I feel like
I can throw this frown off
and see all the stars sheen
and feel my face grow soft
and get a chance to be

…………………………………………………………………………………..Me.

✴︎

I can’t tell you how many times

these sidewalks have felt my tears.

‘Cause I can’t handle this city,

and it can’t stand

to have me here.

But,
y’all know my lover?
She’s from the coun-cher-y.

Sometimes, I call her and cry,
“just come for me!”

And she’ll be like,
“oh, you’re just talking at the mouth.”

And,
she be right.

I’m just chattin’.

I don’t really want out.

‘Cause I’m a fly,
who’s burning up in her forbidden flame.
I wish on these lights
more than I do on stars
‘cause they’ve been replaced.

Look, I’m Gatsby,
living in the new Roaring Twenties!
From my window,
I’m taunted by the red blinking
above the Empire State.

So, I’m up late at night–
just gazing–
‘cause these walls are roaring-empty,
and I can clearly hear
that this whole city’s still wide awake.

Guess you tourists were right.
About some bits.

And “I HEART N.Y.” too.

But,
let me talk my shit.

‘Cause just listen!

These thin walls are why my ass can’t get no sleep!

So tell me, New York:
How are you so expensive,
yet so

god

damn

cheap?

Respectfully,
Another Native New Yorker Evicted from The Dream

___

Camille R.E. is chanting a black and queer girl’s song, unearthing deep feelings and inspiring powerful self-discovery. Since childhood, she has found solace in alchemizing imagery, rhythm and words to express her living, palpable emotions. With roots wandering from Brooklyn to South Carolina, her bold literary voice blooms from every verse, aiming to sow gardens throughout our vast wounds. Camille shares her words on TikTok (@camille.r.e) and Instagram (@camille_r.e) while she writes her first novel.

Listen to the 1966 recording of Sonny Rollins performing his composition “East Broadway Run Down” with Rollins (tenor saxophone); Freddie Hubbard (trumpet); Jimmy Garrison (bass); and Elvin Jones (drums). [Universal Music Group]