We are not creatures of perfection
By nature
Or nurture
We are malleable in form
From start to finish
I struggle with my own imperfect humanity
Trying to make the best of what I have
Having not the best to give
Unmistakably mistaken
Poured just short of perfection
In times just the simple reflection
Lets me know
That I am imperfect
Certainly uncertain
For my known unknowns
Are what what make
Me
Remarkably
Human
Eyes slap open
With the crack of the jackhammer
It’s 9 AM
Monday in the City
I rush over to close the small gap
In the window
The loud crash of shovels
Iron cast on asphalt
Giant machines with splendid
Saws, jacks, and hammers
Traffic held back
While the men hit the ground
With cement hammers
The window to the city
Has shown so much to me
It is a true story
Yet an untold anomaly
Of jackhammers
I grew up in the soft quiet fields on Indiana
Acquaint myself
To the new sounds
Of my surroundings
Thank God for public transportation
This revelation
Is one of the finest gems
The beauty of the capital of the nation
We are able to move swiftly
Through station
Feet connected to floors
Cold and eternally soaked
To the floorboards of the railcars
A collective quiet continuum
Running from face to face
Some disinterested
Wearing discontent well on their face
Underneath the city
There is a currency of space
Being given and taken
Awarded and mistaken
The sole private goal
Of a seat on a reasonable Subway
Some would just rather pay
Because there is always the lingering
Unreasonable chance
That the cart is filled in advance
But we stagger on
With the commidty of space low
Take it slow
Get on the train
Pull away,
Go
In hopes of doing good
Doing everything you should
Stood proper ready for arrival
But in between every single line
Stands the true test of mankind
Finitely undivine
Some poor fellow with bright light
Shines upon a small error
Eroded and undone
Your lips begin to tighten
As you realize you have failed
At this one chaps small finding
I strive for the perfection
Perfection as far as my detection
But there will always be
Other perspectives
That feel less connected
Intersected with our vision
Even though I do my best
With good will and intention
There is nothing that can prevent
This holier than thou
Intervention
At the creaking of dawn
Semis bustle through the Avenue
Men with covered faces
Lift heavy loads unto empty spaces
Filling slowly with goods for shipment
Equipment, papers, dies, casts
I sometimes wonder what is in the
Buildings just over the Ave.
So much mystery
Only 5 feet from me
Whether they are transporting toxic chemicals
The smells
Oh the smells
The streets outlined with built mounds
Of snow
Paths created from where the tires roll
I have this realization
That I really know so little about my neighborhood
My nation
And it all came to me
From my view
On Manhattan Avenue
Sometimes the flow
Is easier
Or more clear
At least
It feels a little more
Like a hampster
Than a wretched beast
–
Feast on these times
When flow comes barreling in
In from the high sky
The noon hour
Or the late night
Capture and release
No hold
Please give back
Whatever it is you are leased
–
I have a quick smile on these
Days
When work feels more like play
I remembered the feeling
The feeling of rampant creativity
From the lows of procrastination
Stagnations now creates re-inflation
For the seed of creativity is not gone
It has hid for long
But Brooklyn
Lit with smoke high
I have found my breathe again
Amidst an organe sky
I didn’t want to do it
I guess I kind of had to do it
Shit we do to make it through
Renting out half the space
The rat race isn’t even
Half way through
The smell of cabbage in the morning
Warning that the uncomfort of life
Is seeping through
–
It wild the way we hustle
People bustle
Plan for the next month
Once again feeling uncomfortable
But I guess in a city
Where rules are only enforced
Rather than exist
This small task I complete
To make it through the month
Cause if not I call it quits
And back on the road I’ll be
With only half my wits
–
I’m not running some grand hotel
Not even a bed and breakfast
Just trying to make time with no roomates pass
The hosting seemed to be the only option
In a city
Where the Attorney General
Might be hot for me
But I guess I’m damned if I do
Damned if I don’t
It’s New York City
The only answer I can not give
Is
I won’t
Unconscious desiring
Subconscious manifesting
Hoping on some dream
Of breaking out of the cycle
Money in
Money out
Dinner bought
Rent Owed
–
I wish to make it out
Even to the middle class
But these days
Not even the middle class
Can pass
The boundary
Set up in our system
Of class
–
The city tells me there is no middle
Either you own
Or are owned
There is not much between
The filthy rich
And the much lesser known
Hustling makes you feel alright
But SOMETIMES
It just is not enough
To get you off the ground
For a bigger flight
–
So my ode is this
I’m not trying to hit it big
Or swig Courvoisier from the jar
I’m just trying to get by
With a little extra to put away
Living for today
So this is my ode
I have nothing more to say
“You do this every God damn time!”
Exclaimed the man
Hands half thrown in the air
While he ripped the door of the old van
Open
“Fucking Bullshit – that is what it is!”
His head full of dark hair slightly covered
With a Yankees hat
Strewn to the right
The short stout man
Flung the back door of the transport van
Wide open
Hoping to rip it from the hinges
Anger, rage, discontent, dismayed
His voice rang up through the brownstones
Like a choral chamber in a church
He disappeared into the van
Throwing out both one more explicative
Cargo equipment
His friend walked drooped at the shoulders
Slowly recovering the bulls rage thrown
“I’ll tell them what I am going to do”
I wipe my eyes for the first time
It is 7 AM on Manhattan Ave.
This is not unusual
But rather more intense than not
I pull my face close to the glass
Feeling the winter cold briefly pass
My nose
Must be cold out there I think
Unfortunate soul
Throwing out the kitchen sink
But all on a good Tuesday morning in Brooklyn
Now
Back to work
The time it takes
For one simple flake
To make its way
Down the streets of New York
Falling carelessly to the ground
Over the Empire State
Shoveling below
Cracking sound
Filling the streets with heavy
Steady and steady
Falling so hard
I can barely make out
One World Trade
In a storm for the ages
Barren isles of food in the store
We bear down the hatches
And get ready
For just a little more
A Cup of Songwriting 