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The Words upon the Walk

 

“No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money—Samuel Johnson

 

A gathering of righteous Crustaceans,

we circle the wagons in St. Mark’s yard,

six Jesus clones, four Magdalenes,

plus a shitload of gear, food, dogs, guitars,

all wrapped in a fug from trucks, buses, cars.

Ciggies to smoke, soda to drink, but grass

verboten! Fuzz will bust your sorry ass!

 

Pete strums his guitar, a choice Crust-Ho sings:

Now Rocky Raccoon fell back in his room.

Chazz covers his ears in mock-agony.

“Enough of that hippy-dip, let’s get down!”

A boom box pumps out hardcore crust-punk sound:

 

Made up my mind, time to run away,

gonna live my life my own fuckin’ way!

Clean out the cupboard –Dad’s stash, Mom’s bread–

take off for New Yawk, where shit and Fool’s Gold

run in the streets. Come along, Sis, so Dad

don’t knock you up again, Papa Chomo!

Time, the time is now, to run away from home!

 

Yo! Five-O! The Po-Po! Scruffies, make tracks!

Grab everything! Haul ass! Don’t stop to look back!

 

Back on the sidewalk with Spike and my gear,

Fourteenth Street and University Place,

my personal turf, right off Union Square,

I talk to myself, bemoan my sad case.

Invading my space, Belshazzars, apace,

stride past to the gym, then shop, eat outdoors.

Words upon the walk, gap between rich and poor.

 

So it goes, every day, I pass the time.

Three bucks for a pint, then into the park

to party with pill heads, sipping my wine.

They roust us all out exactly at dark.

I go crash on cardboard, no easy mark.

I dream my boy dreams, Spike does his dog thing.

Hungry, stiff, we awaken at dawn, sparking.

 

I rub my eyes, cock my head, cogitate,

awaiting the travelers’ and writers’ muse,

bright Hermes. Slowed by weed, no doubt, he’s late.

But there he is, wafting down on a breeze

with a diaphanous Crustette, his squeeze!

My marker flies across virgin cardboard,

and voila, a chef d’oeuvre, rich and rare.

This should open their eff-ing wallets. Yeah!

 

One more victim of parental abuse

Has washed up on the shores of your city.

Cash for food or a room? No drugs, no booze!

Today’s my sixteenth birthday. Take pity

On a boy more sinned against than sinning.

God loves the cheerful giver –that means you!

Put yourself in my shoes. You fucked up, too?

And check this out, friend! We’re many, you’re few.




Ron Singer

levelheaded: The Words upon the Walk

 

Anybody who has walked through an urban public park in the summertime will find it easy to envision a group of “six Jesus clones, four Magdelenes, / plus a shitload of gear, food, dogs, guitars.” While many of us might feel sorry for such a crew, often, peeking through such a scene’s sadness is the small joy of camaraderie. Singer captures that sentiment through the poem’s early callouts. Concern for getting busted by the police, shared music—these moments infuse the poem with a sense of urgency while binding the group together.

 

That joy, of course, is fleeting. The cops come. The gypsies scatter. The punk lyrics that seemed to serve as an uplifting escape reveal themselves to be deeply disturbing. It seems possible that the sexual abuse alluded to in them could also bind this group together.

 

When he’s on his “personal turf” with his dog, Spike, the narrator’s case seems even bleaker. The poem becomes less about the group and more about one person’s struggle to survive. Well-to-dos walk past as the narrator talks to himself, “bemoan[ing] [his] sad case.” He drinks, hangs with druggies in the park, sleeps on cardboard, wakes and bakes.

 

Just as the punk lyrics that appeared earlier in the poem seemed to elevate the group, the narrator’s revelry in language at the poem’s close lifts his spirits. His “marker flies across virgin cardboard,” and the masterpiece that follows is “rich and rare.” Poetry, quite literally, keeps him alive.

 

Sadly, contrasting the elation the narrator experiences when writing, are the word’s he uses to describe that experience. Of note, “virgin” and “rich” hold extra weight when uttered by a sexually abused, poverty-stricken teen. The contents of the narrator’s panhandling poetry are equally grim. The narrator has been dealt a rotten hand. Many others have too.

 

 

– The Editors