4 views
mean streets (draft)
In this life, different versions of me
have peered out a multitude of windows. Viewing views that were direct reflections
Of me being exactly where I was supposed to be.
One version of me, a lifetime ago,
Peered down a road lined with house after house.
Yards pristinely manicured, cookie cutter clones. Judgement peered back at me on those roads, Where the HOA railroaded us with codes. My garden grew wild. They said,
“Cut that shit down, or get outta our town”
Off to college I soon hauled ass,
not old enough to vote or buy a pack of smokes.
Fifteen floors up, I checked out my view
Fraternity and sorority dolls galore.
I remembered them, I went to school with her and him and oh that girl too. The mean girls walked those college streets. Smiles drawn on with phony lipstick. I knew their game, phony and sugary sweet. These girls were out to win no matter the cost. To win over those frat boys with rich daddy’s. Those boys who dropped, clinkity clinks In girls drinks. Young girls who couldn’t yet vote much less buy a pack of smokes. Clinkity clink, gulp gulp it’s time to party. Then blankity blank, waking up in a scary place. Scrambling, trying to find the moments that led to this morning walk of shame. Clothes scattered and torn, gulp gulp then blackness…
Those mean girls could have those boys.
Happy to forfeit that win, trophy wife was not to be my life. The prettiest dogwoods I’ve ever seen lined the streets where those men took whatever they wanted, never caring the human cost. Everyone moaned and groaned when they cut those dogwoods down. The seventeen year old me, sighed a sigh of relief. Those pretty dogwoods masked a dirty street, disguised it a beautiful it could never be.
Up in the mountains there was a street I would meet. No cookie cutter houses, this was a place full of independent minds! Or so thought that young version of me. Much to my dismay. Those minds were closed along with those blinds. I sat on my front porch waving happily at unfriendly neighbors. Quickly learning that fear resided on these streets. No talking to strangers. Neighbors and front porches were danger said CNN and MSNBC and LMNOQ. Cause you never knew who was who. Fear driven lives I lived amongst. Such a waste of such a pretty place. Community I searched for high and low. It was to no avail. A herd of independent closed off minds was all I found.
Then there was a street over on the west side. A little trailer, it was just fine. 'Ohhh you live over there, make sure you lock your door!' I never did And sure enough nothing was ever taken, only given. One couple had chickens and ten kids, they lived across the street. Left eggs on our porch. Neighbors stopped by just to say hi, or to snag a beer. Take em all I’d offer, he sure as shit doesn’t need anymore. Hannah and Taylor pitched up their tent, right in our yard. When we lived on that west side of town. Sick days, nice friendly streets. Dude from Mexico lived next door, with his wife and kids. He was pretty chill. The police popped up almost nightly in the ghetto, quarter mile down. My kids played in that playground lotsa days. It was the friendliest road I ever lived on. That’s back when we had Miss Mags. Or Miss Mags had us. Dan worried about her crossing the street. He said she didn’t look both ways and the cars went too fast. I told him he could try and keep that cat locked in a house, but she was meant to be free. Huntress, independent, god the best cat that Ever adopted me. She just showed up one day and never left. Bringing birds to our doorstep and straight into the house (one was alive), alas her life was to be taken by the streets.
"Mommy mommy, Miss Mags is taking a nap!!"
I looked out the window, straight to the road. That day the streets were mean, put the kids went down for a nap, by the time I made it to her rigor mortise had set in. Tears as I felt death head on. Mommies do what mommies have to do when cat huntresses take their naps on the mean streets. I buried her in our back yard as the babies slept, not yet understanding mean streets or death. Then there was the winter, the big snow storm. Same street different house. Dad lived one trailer over. We lived with Hanno, that chick from the tent (she had upgraded, dad and I were on the off). But Hanno was gone, and I was nervous being alone. So I carried two, two year olds on my hips. That super quick walk was quite slow on that snowy day. 12 to 18 inches of snow. The kids were scared and wriggly, they’d never seen such a thing, white cold everywhere. When they tried to take a step they sank into cold slush. So kids on hips, mommy trudged over to daddy’s, begging him to meet me halfway, he didn’t. Wriggling heavy worms, I held tightly in my arms, that walk seemed like forever and a day. My boy screamed suddenly, mommy! He pointed straight ahead. A tear slipped out as I stopped and stared in awe at what was in fact a chicken, frozen in time. Literally and in my mind. Forever etched. All you could see was her head. And I couldn’t help but wonder with each step, each crunch of snow, what else there might be buried alive, frozen and dead beneath my feet. But we made it to daddy’s. Snowed in for two days.
That street was my favorite. Neighbors were neighborly, cars slipping and sliding and getting stuck. Everyone helping one another get unstuck or inviting them in to get warm if they’d gotten themselves too stuck.
The mean on that street, it lived in our trailer. I wish we could have been kinder to one another. I wish it was different. No one warns you, the strains that a baby times two can put on a relationship with an already rocky foundation. No one tells you about that part. On that bad side of town, the only mean I met, it lived in my home. It was me and him, the mean ones on the nice street in the worst part of town. The thing about streets like that is…none of us had anything to lose. Not things of monetary value. The things we had to lose came at a different kind of cost. Those were the streets on the west side of town, where we never locked our doors and neighbors sat in their front yards and stopped and talked a minutes as they walked down the street. Mexicans next doors, two hippies with ten kids across the street, the sweet old lady that picked blackberries with me and always managed to con me out of dan's beer (wasn’t too hard), the ghetto less than a half a mile down, half way before that was a little corner store, you know the little stores that don’t have gas. Making their money off beers, blunts, and lottery tickets, you didn’t even have to ask of, course they took ebt. College kids across the street. A few crack heads scattered here and there, they were always moving so I never quite knew which space they inhabited.
Left the mountains for the ocean. That’s an experience for another write on another night. Cause those streets, they were different than any of the others. Those streets played by their own set of rules. Rules in which I'd not yet been schooled. Lessons there- earned wih hard knocks.
#meanstreets
© fire_tamed_dame
have peered out a multitude of windows. Viewing views that were direct reflections
Of me being exactly where I was supposed to be.
One version of me, a lifetime ago,
Peered down a road lined with house after house.
Yards pristinely manicured, cookie cutter clones. Judgement peered back at me on those roads, Where the HOA railroaded us with codes. My garden grew wild. They said,
“Cut that shit down, or get outta our town”
Off to college I soon hauled ass,
not old enough to vote or buy a pack of smokes.
Fifteen floors up, I checked out my view
Fraternity and sorority dolls galore.
I remembered them, I went to school with her and him and oh that girl too. The mean girls walked those college streets. Smiles drawn on with phony lipstick. I knew their game, phony and sugary sweet. These girls were out to win no matter the cost. To win over those frat boys with rich daddy’s. Those boys who dropped, clinkity clinks In girls drinks. Young girls who couldn’t yet vote much less buy a pack of smokes. Clinkity clink, gulp gulp it’s time to party. Then blankity blank, waking up in a scary place. Scrambling, trying to find the moments that led to this morning walk of shame. Clothes scattered and torn, gulp gulp then blackness…
Those mean girls could have those boys.
Happy to forfeit that win, trophy wife was not to be my life. The prettiest dogwoods I’ve ever seen lined the streets where those men took whatever they wanted, never caring the human cost. Everyone moaned and groaned when they cut those dogwoods down. The seventeen year old me, sighed a sigh of relief. Those pretty dogwoods masked a dirty street, disguised it a beautiful it could never be.
Up in the mountains there was a street I would meet. No cookie cutter houses, this was a place full of independent minds! Or so thought that young version of me. Much to my dismay. Those minds were closed along with those blinds. I sat on my front porch waving happily at unfriendly neighbors. Quickly learning that fear resided on these streets. No talking to strangers. Neighbors and front porches were danger said CNN and MSNBC and LMNOQ. Cause you never knew who was who. Fear driven lives I lived amongst. Such a waste of such a pretty place. Community I searched for high and low. It was to no avail. A herd of independent closed off minds was all I found.
Then there was a street over on the west side. A little trailer, it was just fine. 'Ohhh you live over there, make sure you lock your door!' I never did And sure enough nothing was ever taken, only given. One couple had chickens and ten kids, they lived across the street. Left eggs on our porch. Neighbors stopped by just to say hi, or to snag a beer. Take em all I’d offer, he sure as shit doesn’t need anymore. Hannah and Taylor pitched up their tent, right in our yard. When we lived on that west side of town. Sick days, nice friendly streets. Dude from Mexico lived next door, with his wife and kids. He was pretty chill. The police popped up almost nightly in the ghetto, quarter mile down. My kids played in that playground lotsa days. It was the friendliest road I ever lived on. That’s back when we had Miss Mags. Or Miss Mags had us. Dan worried about her crossing the street. He said she didn’t look both ways and the cars went too fast. I told him he could try and keep that cat locked in a house, but she was meant to be free. Huntress, independent, god the best cat that Ever adopted me. She just showed up one day and never left. Bringing birds to our doorstep and straight into the house (one was alive), alas her life was to be taken by the streets.
"Mommy mommy, Miss Mags is taking a nap!!"
I looked out the window, straight to the road. That day the streets were mean, put the kids went down for a nap, by the time I made it to her rigor mortise had set in. Tears as I felt death head on. Mommies do what mommies have to do when cat huntresses take their naps on the mean streets. I buried her in our back yard as the babies slept, not yet understanding mean streets or death. Then there was the winter, the big snow storm. Same street different house. Dad lived one trailer over. We lived with Hanno, that chick from the tent (she had upgraded, dad and I were on the off). But Hanno was gone, and I was nervous being alone. So I carried two, two year olds on my hips. That super quick walk was quite slow on that snowy day. 12 to 18 inches of snow. The kids were scared and wriggly, they’d never seen such a thing, white cold everywhere. When they tried to take a step they sank into cold slush. So kids on hips, mommy trudged over to daddy’s, begging him to meet me halfway, he didn’t. Wriggling heavy worms, I held tightly in my arms, that walk seemed like forever and a day. My boy screamed suddenly, mommy! He pointed straight ahead. A tear slipped out as I stopped and stared in awe at what was in fact a chicken, frozen in time. Literally and in my mind. Forever etched. All you could see was her head. And I couldn’t help but wonder with each step, each crunch of snow, what else there might be buried alive, frozen and dead beneath my feet. But we made it to daddy’s. Snowed in for two days.
That street was my favorite. Neighbors were neighborly, cars slipping and sliding and getting stuck. Everyone helping one another get unstuck or inviting them in to get warm if they’d gotten themselves too stuck.
The mean on that street, it lived in our trailer. I wish we could have been kinder to one another. I wish it was different. No one warns you, the strains that a baby times two can put on a relationship with an already rocky foundation. No one tells you about that part. On that bad side of town, the only mean I met, it lived in my home. It was me and him, the mean ones on the nice street in the worst part of town. The thing about streets like that is…none of us had anything to lose. Not things of monetary value. The things we had to lose came at a different kind of cost. Those were the streets on the west side of town, where we never locked our doors and neighbors sat in their front yards and stopped and talked a minutes as they walked down the street. Mexicans next doors, two hippies with ten kids across the street, the sweet old lady that picked blackberries with me and always managed to con me out of dan's beer (wasn’t too hard), the ghetto less than a half a mile down, half way before that was a little corner store, you know the little stores that don’t have gas. Making their money off beers, blunts, and lottery tickets, you didn’t even have to ask of, course they took ebt. College kids across the street. A few crack heads scattered here and there, they were always moving so I never quite knew which space they inhabited.
Left the mountains for the ocean. That’s an experience for another write on another night. Cause those streets, they were different than any of the others. Those streets played by their own set of rules. Rules in which I'd not yet been schooled. Lessons there- earned wih hard knocks.
#meanstreets
© fire_tamed_dame
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