It has dawned on me that the poet is the truest rebel there is. 

When I first started busking I did so because I believed I had a gift. If I had a gift then I should share it. Busking was a natural fit to the ideal that I had developed in understanding my purpose. Which at the time that I began my journey was, for every life there exists a narrative. That narrative is either beautiful or tragic depending solely on the perspective. 

Sometimes the clacking of a typewriter lures people in. The rhythm and the distantly nostalgic or unfamiliar artifact gives me the false pretense that I am a snake charmer. My typewrite is my flute.

I have this strange feeling that I am cursed. Whenever my family would go fishing everyone would catch something besides me. Not that people are fish, though you could make the argument I have the attention span of a goldfish, but the way you need to wiggle your worm is the way you need to slam the keys.

Not always. Other days, like the day I will tell you about, were slow and then, BOOM. I have been sitting in Central Park having written two or three poems, and in a spontaneous final hour I have written twenty-five. I don’t make up the rules, I just study them, so I know how to break them.

It was late spring. There was a baby bird stuck in a tree somewhere at four o’clock.

The mall at Central Park reminds me of the Hudson River valley view from my childhood. The indigenous called it the river of two currents. I’d people watch as some flowed from left to right; others right to left.

On the day I am referring to I stuck a piece of paper in my typewriter that read, “Wake me up if you want a poem.”. This wasn’t a habit of mine, though it was something I did upon occasion. Sometimes laying down under the nearest tree. Most times just sleeping right there on the bench.

My favorite days were during the summer, and it would begin to rain. Everyone fleeing for cover. We would run. Some towards Bethesda fountain. Others just away from the park. 

One time I ran to Bethesda to camp out under the roof. There was a summer camp of kids. I was finishing up a poem that I began before the rain started. The way they all began to ask me questions confirmed to me that I wanted to be a teacher. Sometimes I feel like it is my obligation as a creative to preserve a curious child like imagination within myself.  

On one of these days I sat beneath a tree. That felt like an important day. Not as important as the day in late spring that I am about to describe. I had begun to doze off while staring at a pink tree in the distance. It was before me, but I was trying to see if I could find the colors within myself. It relaxed me enough where my head began to droop.

It’s unclear how long I was sleeping with that note in my typewriter when I was abruptly awakened by a child. “Peregrine Falcon”. When I opened my eyes there was a young boy with large glasses inches away from my face. The glasses enlarged his eyes as if they were a magnifying glass. I tried my best not to be startled as my eye lids delayed their opening the way they do after a good cat nap.

“*insert name of child* you have to respect people’s personal space.”, said his mother.

“It's alright, I shouldn't be napping for too long out here", I said to the mother, "What was that, bud?”, I directed my attention to the boy.

“Peregrine Falcon. Fastest animal on the planet.”

“Ummm, that’s cool.”, I say to the kid whose mother is now pulling him away.

“Mom, I want a poem about a Peregrine Falcon.”

“Is that something you can do?”, she asked me. She wore lime green. Something about her eyes told me she was a good mother. The kid was wearing navy blue. He might have been six or seven years old. His younger sister was with them, she must have been about four and wearing pink. A brighter pink then the pink that made me fall asleep.

“I can give it a go.”

“How long do you need?”

“Once I look up what this bird looks like and maybe a fact or two, then like five minutes.”

“Thank you, how much?”

“However much you are willing to give me.”

She smiled. He sat to the right of me and confirmed the pictures I found on my phone. His sister asked if she could have a poem about Unicorns when I was done. The mom asked me if I minded and I, in fact, did not mind.

I wrote what I could about the bird. There wasn’t much I had to work with after my quick google search, but the kid was over the moon. I’ll admit the unicorn poem was not nearly childish enough. I remember reading the second poem and thinking, this is for a four year old not a teenager who needs to grow up. That’s the gig, unfortunately. If you are doing it the right way then ninety percent of it is shit. Eight percent you can work with. And the last two percent leaves you in disbelief. Did I really create this?

I don’t remember how much she gave me for the two poems, but I remember feeling like it was a generous amount. I watched them walk towards the Women’s Rights Statue, which was relatively new at the time that I was out there. As they passed one of the turns you could make when exiting the mall, I made eye contact with a nightmarish looking gentleman. The second I made eye contact I knew he was heading in my direction.

Being who I am attracts a certain type of attention. I am reminded of the Dylan lyric from Ballad of A Thin Man. “You go watch the geek / who immediately walks up to you / when he hears you speak.”.

This isn’t the correct interpretation of those lyrics, but it’s the sentiment that I am trying to highlight. My ideals, my appearance, and the way I speak about what I speak about attracts subterranean pirates. The outlandish and the outlawish. Intellectuals poke fun, because they have read more books but never did what I done.

Anyways this guy hooks the left and is bee lining towards me. He has a bebop to his step. The only problem is he is out of rhythm.

As he gets closer, his disposition increasingly reminds me of Gollum. His hair is a stringy and shiny blonde. It’s long and thin. He is holding a large binding of papers.

“I believe Bukowksi was the one who did this back in the day.”, he says with his words as much as he says with his flailing hands. “SoooOoo, I’d like to speak with a fellow writer, man. I just submitted this MANuscript to the publishers, but I could have used the help of a profeshional such as your shelf. I mean you must be better than me if you are doing this out here.”, he takes a seat to my left. “SO, this is the gig. This is the plan. Be out here until you get discovered.”

“Or maybe until I am not discovered.”

“I see. I see. It ain’t what it’s made it out to be. I see.”, from my time in Syracuse, one of the poorest cities in America and located in Central New York (CNY has a terrible heroin epidemic), I had seen my fair share of tweekers and over doses. My new friend of literature and delirium was giving all the signs. His nails were in his forearm. The muscles in his faces were relentless. And his eyes. They looked like the crocodile’s from Peter Pan.

Now inviting conversation, ergo inviting chaos, into your life the way I was actively doing by busking means I had had, at this point, my fair share of dangerous encounters. Additionally, I had dealt with a variety of people in the houseless community. Run in with those dealing with addiction was not entirely uncommon. People will tell you anything once they perceive you are willing to listen. 

I positioned myself accordingly. This person is not posing a threat until he is. He clearly is not governed by the laws that govern the rest of society. Proceed with caution.

He began to play the piano upon his lips.

“Let me. Let me see what you got, kid. If you are worth a damn or if you are just a has been that hasn't been yet. How much?”

“How much you got?”

“I have literary wisdom.”

“Fair.”, it wasn’t the first or last time I’d written a poem free of charge. Reading the atmosphere, it felt like a harmless and advantageous play.

“What would you like the poem to be about?”

“Flattery.”

This flipped something deeply uncomfortable within me. I loaded the typewriter with paper and tried to find the words. As I attempted to concentrate, he began to taunt me. "What's the matter lacking inspiration? Is flattery a goooooood or a bad thing? I donut know.".

I finally wrote down the opening lines.

“Stop! Read to me what you got.”

“Butter me up. Nice and fat.”

“Very good. Keep going.”

I was searching for the words when he began to tell me a story about how he used to do drugs with John Lennon’s ghost in strawberry fields. He was telling me what it was like and putting extreme emphasis on random syllables. Then as I found fragments of what I was trying to write, navigating my frustration and the desire to hit this man, he began to sing.

Strawberry fields…nothing is real……

I stopped thinking and just let my hands move. I didn't care what I wrote as long as I got something in his hands so he would leave me alone. 

“You are taking to long, let me hear what you have written thus far, maestro.”

I read what I had written with a quivering voice. He finally sat still since the beginning of our encounter. He rubbed his chin and really digested my words.

Now, years after this event I still hold my beliefs about the contingency of perspectives upon our narratives of selfhood. But it is no longer why I continue. I now believe that art is the war against violence. I have seen the proverb, "The pen is mightier than the sword.", come to life. I have seen how violence breaks down and art rebuilds. 

“It’s absolute shit. You’ll never make it as a writer.”

He got up and walked away. I never saw him, again. The poem remained in my typewriter.

The pink trees didn't look the way they did before.