Ain't Shit Up There but Clouds

This kid sits on the block, looking up at the sky, thinking, Will I live to 18 years of age? And what the fuck am I looking up at the sky for? Ain’t shit up there anyway. But I guess the sky is more appealing than the reality of the streets.

Which brings his attention back to the present.

I better pay fucking attention before I get shot in this bitch.

Such words are the language of the land we bleed on, and in this land, ain’t shit nice. So he reaches in his pocket. The cold, hard steel reminds him of what he needs to do to survive.

Sigh.

Why must it be like this?

And these motherfucking weak-ass thoughts keep invading, as if I’m getting soft or something. But in reality, ain’t shit soft about this Mexican.

He shakes his head, clenches his jaw, and stands up. He takes a glance from all angles, making sure he does a full 360 view of the land before he makes his move. His moves are smooth, calculated, and his routes are wisely chosen, ensuring that he has an escape route.

A loud whistle gets his attention, and in that same direction is a man who looks as if he just got off work or something. He whistles at me again, but that don’t mean I’ma fucking pull up. I ain’t no motherfucking dog or something to be whistled at. Plus, this fool thinks it’s friendly out here. Fuck that.

So I nod my head upward in a gesture that means, What’s up?

As he gets close, I slide the gun out of my pocket easily and hold it behind my back as I lean on the concrete wall of the block. The man asks if I had some work on me. Before I even answer his question, I have to analyze him from head to toe, because it’s always hot on the block, and I ain’t trying to serve no motherfucking pig.

It doesn’t take long before I realize this man is a functional drug addict who simply wants to get high after a long day of hard work. So I serve the guy and take his money with one quick handshake.

As he leaves, I place the money in my inside pocket, thinking, This shit gets old really fast.

I shake my head, looking up at the sky one last time. Yeah, ain’t shit there but some bitch-ass clouds. That type of shit ain’t going to help me nor save me. In fact, this is my life, and this is my world.

So I jump the fence in one quick movement, run past several buildings, slide in between the broken metal bars of a gate, then sit down on the ledge of an old swimming pool, dipping my feet into a pool that doesn’t have any water. All I can do is swing my feet back and forth.

This is a place I know is safe, a place that a friend took me to chill. The view isn’t nice. In fact, the place is a torn-down house, and the pool is all that’s left. But like I said, only a few people know of this place, and that other person is long gone—only a distant memory in my mind that I keep closed so I won’t feel anything.

As I sit there, I push the memory aside and lay down on the concrete floor, listening to the distant sounds of the streets: ambulances, police, gunshots, rap music blasting from car stereos, even kids playing in the streets, dogs barking. So many sounds of life in the fucked-up world I live in.

I wish.

But wishes don’t come true in my life. Wishes are a fantasy. Here on the streets, you get no wishes. All you get is gang membership, guns, drugs, or death if you don’t know how to move right.

So fuck that weak-ass thought, and fuck that wish.

I’m gonna die a gangster.