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
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
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
“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
Every blistering second
Count down from 10 to nine
Hold my breathe
I think it will be alright
Nine to eight
Walk forward again
Push through the door
Early rather than late
Eight to seven
Straighten myself up
Give all I am given
Seven to Six
The frustration and challenge
Getting worn in
Just for kicks
Six to five
Hold my head up
Stay alive
Five to four
Only 3 more
Four to three
Look everyone in the eye
From your heart let it be
Three to two
Now I am alone here
I must see this through
Two to one
One more and I am done
One to zero
On a Tuesday afternoon
I start to feel my hope slip away
Just a bit
It’s that tiny voice it will say
To drudge on in a world uncertain
Don’t give up now
Please don’t pull the curtain
But when I walk down the street
My heart heavy in my chest
The little voice can’t be heard
Can’t be heard anymore
Even when I give it my best
I try to reinvigorate what may be lost
Walking on Manhattan Ave
Damn rents got me down
On such high costs
That I just have to focus on breath
In and out
I can make it through this day
I have not one doubt
I must rekindle the light words
That once rung in my ears
What was once a mighty roar
I just now barely hear
There it is
Spilled my coffee again
In a rush
To make it out
Into the thin
Brittle cold air
Of a New York morning
I reset myself
I should give them some forewarning
Grab some paper towel
I’m already 10 minutes late
If the G is on time that is
My mind begins to race
Such a simple morning
Now turns into complicated maneuvers
I watch the bright white paper towels
Turn to a more rusted out brown
Take a sip of my coffee
Then set it down
In the trash and out the door
I hear the train horn
I run down the stairs
In the old turnstile
With the attendant half asleep
Make the train
Only by a couple of feet
Satisfied corruption
Don’t take someones word
On automatic assumption
Humanity will rise and fall
Some will tell the truth
Others a false call
Will ring on every persons ears
The willing or unable
Confident or full of fear
It is this small eruption
Will ill will
Built in conjunction
When you are on the receiving end
Beaten down
Will and resilience must not bend
It will happen on a Monday
Or Today
Or any day
For the needs of the liar
Will surely set
Your belly on fire
A Cup of Songwriting 