I AM NOT A HAMMER! Not a hammer. He screamed inwardly, directing his intentions at the tall, rough-brick buildings, the foreboding, overlooking passersby, the ominous, taunting sky. Screamed on the inside and what good did it do, but translate to another twisted face of his. The fear and anger welling up once again. If only he’d learned in time to pipe up, if only his voice could back him, if only the right person had asked the right things, if only. If only. If only.
Ah, but that is the curse of the foster kid shuffle. Is it not? The souls it claims tumbling out in ruins, vacillating between the unstoppable, menacing dissonance in splatter-surround-sound, incessantly playing between ears of the touched, and coming out loud, disconcerting… Or the quiet ones; The ones still entangled in the monster-under-the-bed deluded illusion of the “if I can’t see them, they can’t see me” variety. Eyes averted. Lost beyond the depths. A despondency measured in dog years.
Herein is where our homeboy lay. He’d been pushed out into the sun under a bad star from the jump. Tunnels of NYC ain’t no place to form a baby, especially when a woman didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with her until the day she uncontrollably wet herself, and was stabbed by alien pains emanating from the depths of her belly when she was mostly used to being numb.
Cries and primal, animal sounds rung the dark maze beneath the streets that morning, about an eighth of a mile shy from the nearest shaft of dusted light. A baby was born onto a worn mattress full of unspeakable stains. Picked up reluctantly by filthy, unexpectant hands, and held, finally, to a tattered breast on a tired body with a rapid heartbeat, and the first. blossoming. of instant. surprise. love. a person can only know once they’ve been left to bleed and all else had failed.
And speaking of blood, holy mother was it a mess. Messy from day one. This woman! She had no idea. She was just walking in the shoes that she’d been given a generation or two ago. She couldn’t be sure. Family history was never rich on the roster. But she’d stayed on the same path as her own mother. Tending her habits above all else. Passing them on to her skinny, miracle child.
It was novelty at first. Because she’d never really known care. Never really known responsibility. Didn’t know the first thing about child rearing but hot-damn would she do her best. Her capabilities were few- let’s not glorify. I mean, an addict in deep is an addict in deep. But little can be done to stifle that innate knowledge that woman share. The one that is connected to ancestry. To source. The umbilical chord of the universe. She tended best she could, long as she could, until the mouth became too needy. Her own needs too greedy, to give proper attention to a babe.
So off with it on the kind of hot summer night where the nail-exposed overhangs drip with polluted condensation and people move molasses slow to keep the heat at bay. Off with it, this kid, this monkey, this needy thing she never wanted, couldn’t even remember how it happened in the first place. Off with this and onto some store’s front stoop where come morning a startled Asian grocer would find a itty-bitty-stinky-baby in a box and stare at in amazement for one shocked moment, wondering how people could be so cruel, before picking up the entire box that weighed all of 6 pounds and bringing it into NYPD’s 5th Precinct on Elizabeth and Canal, to be stared at suspiciously and questioned with intimidation, armed with about 30 specific, limited to shop-talk- English words. Oh poor secret Asian mang.
Fast forwarding our tale and on with it. Our poor guy. Our poor baby who would be sure to grow slight in height, and not far in the mental. Our poor guy who was to be pushed, dropped, dragged, and kicked through an unchecked system of house after house and on. Filled with predator and mouse. Loud television and louse. Lack of love, direction, or reliable constant. The irony of taxing the shit out of parents desperate to adopt, and adversely allowing the shittiest of the lot to be foster parents. And paying their asses. The horror. No criteria having mother-fuckers. Something to shake your head at.
Our boy never developed much of a taste for outward speak. Didn’t have much to say. Maybe he didn’t know how. Perhaps he lacked the overlooked tools of expressivity or composition. Teachers thought he a lost cause. Not much you can do with a lump that sits in the corner, refusing to engage. So in he went and out again. And at the glorious age of 18; the ripe age where we are fit and tied to greet the world; the age where we no longer need guidance or help at all, ever, and are ready- all of us- for complete and utter independence- our homeboy was let out.
He was like an instant street rat. Literally like a fucking rat. Where he learned from the rodents basic survival. Eat what you can find. Drink where you can find. Sleep in the little nooks where people are not apt to disturb you. He took to the streets with arguable natal instinct. The streets gave him selective shelter, opened up his fuzzy focus. Taught him the freedom to sit and stare. The freedom to bark or growl or yell at random- all of which he practiced, just to see. But it wasn’t him. He was the silent type. You know. On the city pulsed and he felt off-shook by the beat. Our boy never had the luxury of feeling steady, really. His only purpose was today, I suppose. The ability to reflect on purpose is paired with those on the elevated levels of the comparably modern day caste system. Paired with those where the concept of hedonism can ring. Where people can afford sarcasm. His pockets bore holes and his currency nil.
Our boy. Left to eat the dust. Left an empty shell of nobody. He never got to be. Some people never do. They run through depleted soil from dia numero uno. No chance. Bleek grim. A sad ending from the beginning. A side bar. An untended, deficient weed.
In a world of hard focused happy endings I embrace the grime. Tip a 40 oz., a pinot with your pinky in the air, your G & T, your whisky neat, rip the tip off your blunt if you gotta- for all the living ghosts out there. They’re out there right now, shuffling, rocking, hiding. Tip it and sip it and know you got it good, and if not good, better than a lot.
Pigeon Heart Ponderings 
Your writing is compelling. Enjoyed.
Thank you very much.
First word to mind, Powerful. Raw, Real, follow. Brilliant, Poignant….blah, blah, blah. My words feel empty beside what you have written. Cold and clear as this ice storm that just moved through. Warming as the fire I made, pushing back the cold with honest heat. Food for fire thoughts. Consumed, as he was. Thank you.
Mmm, thank you. I feel that nobel fire from the next cave over.
Pigeon Heart,
This is great writing. I have suggested it to the Freshly Pressed folks on Twitter.
Eric
Wow. Thank you so much.
I really appreciate that! How does that work exactly? What are the chances, too?
PH,
Freshly Pressed has its Twitter handle (@freshly_pressed), so basically it’s a tweet to the team with a link to your post. As for the chances, who knows… It depends on WordPress’ story wranglers…
Eric
Ah ja. Gracias señor. That would be cool! Have you made it yet?
PH,
Yes, last October. And soon after, Le Clown was featured on the Daily Post. 2012 was a pretty good year.
Le Clown
Rad. I’m not surprised at all though. Your charisma shines through strongly. It’s pretty enrapturing.
Pigeon Heart,
Congrats on the FP’d nod!
Le Clown
Couldn’t have done it w/o you, Le Clown. Oh, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! All my best to you!! Big love and sexy things and money and mustangs, baby!
Dayyumm, girl, you’ve got fucking great stuff. This is brilliant. Palpable. The grime is the real deal.
Ah! Thanks! It felt right. I have been reading this book “The Mole People” by Jennifer Toth about the life under the streets on NY and it’s been milling about in my mind. Super impacting and a great, highly highly recommended read. So glad you liked the result (;
That’s an amazing book, isn’t it? It sort of blew my mind when I first read it.
Yes! I want to read it with a book club bc there’s so much to process.
That was really good. Effective use of swearing as well (I’m being serious!). I liked the way the flow of words evocatively painted these poetic and poignant images, but every now and again the beauty of the words were punctuated with a ‘fuck’ or a ‘pissed,’ which helped bring the harshness of the world being described back to its gritty reality. It was good. 🙂
Thanks so much. I’m glad it translated the way I had intended for it to.
I agree- there is a time and a place for emphatics. (:
Beautiful, eloquent rhythm depicting an unfortunate disaster. Write on, Pigeon Girl, write on.
Thank you, Miss Rollo. Thank you very much.
Very real,extremely well-written and unique. Just loved it a lot. Congratulations on being Freshly Pressed pigeonheart !
Thank you tons. I’m so glad you like. I appreciate your accolades. (:
that was worth reading!!! 🙂
thanks! i’m stoked you thought so !
wow your writing its wow
can you do you me favor check out mines and tell people about me please
thanks so much. I’ll scope ya soon!
np
alright cool
spread the word about me
im new to this so yeah thanks again
just keep writing. keep bringing it out from within, using YOUR own voice, and being real. You’ll get notoriety in time if you merit it. I don’t have a secret recipe for you and don’t really ever “promote” anyone per say, honestly. It’s all in time. (: Keep writing.
alright thanks
Really enjoyed this, thank you 🙂
aw thanks. I’m so glad.
Congrats on being freshly pressed! I love your writing style. Absolutely beautiful.
Thanks so very much! It’s so exciting! Glad you like!
Good work you are doing there…
Muchas gracias! I appreciate that.
Absolutely loved this 🙂
Thank you so much. It felt right. Thanks for the reblog too!! Best to ya!
You’re more then welcome, and best too you to. 🙂
Reblogged this on Music Vision Sound.
Very enjoyable. Please come visit my page as well.
Some people are so far away. I think about the cost to put them up to a sliver of a different wisdom, only wise by experiences’ sake, listed mistakes which avoidance might lead to better. But we, all of us, hurtling in time to the moment when we greet each other with smiles and nods, have stamped our pasts in metal – not wax – and we bring varied ounces in unsame cups, wards by our injuries, voices to spill forth: I try to relate somehow, to draw analogies, to find common cause. In the end it sometimes feels like you can only bring a person to water, and the fishing’s done alone.
that’s the beauty that we have been given, you see. We have the gift of words and an ability to craft them just so. There are many angles with which to bring someone to the water, as you say. Many different kinds of teachers.
That last line is solid. Seriously signature line solid. Your eyes are wide open. Shift them a little bit above or a little bit below a person, see a dozen new worlds. Now, that’s tourism.
I took a class in ‘voice poetry’ once. The objective was to nail their words from w/ in, not superimposing our own thoughts on them. I remember doing an exercise, using a character that I created who was an illegal immigrant (this was years and years ago before all the heat and the dept. of homeland security and alla that baloney racist fuckery) and having to wrangle myself into myself. It was work to find his voice. Like acting, but nonphysical.
This writing was a step removed from that, but hell if I’m gonna be on the other side of the window pain as our dude in the wings.
Thanks for your comment. You really got it to. Ima go scope your page (:
wow so thought provoking, Really enjoyed it thank you 🙂
Thanks lots. I’m glad it gave you thoughts (;
Sure did 😀
придурашная песня
I’ll take it! (;
Great writing. The lyrical, compelling…so glad to have come across it!
Thank you so much. It was a fun flow to follow. I’m glad you did too.
Sorry I missed this. I have been completely out of the loop and I feel like a terrible friend. Congrats. Xoxo
I have missed you! Thank you! Very exciting (:
I think your blog deserves this award! 🙂
http://sleepingonclouds.wordpress.com/2013/01/29/a-nomination-and-so-much-more/
Thanks so very! I’m flattered (:
I just loved it. (:
It was really good,especially the rhymings. I wish to use yor way in some manner.
thank you (:
Reblogged this on The Splendid Siren and commented:
Words
I think you deserve this! 🙂
http://sleepingonclouds.wordpress.com/2013/02/24/the-beautiful-blogger-award/