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Sounds stupid, but I used to think pigeons carried dreams. But then again, I used to think dreams were rocks. I used to think dreams were tall and made out of rock and they couldn't break either. And when I'd sleep, I'd dream about being a pigeon carrying a rock, flying over everything that was stupid, like my skinny legs and homework and the bums and the heat that makes you feel like you're swimming and makes you feel like you wanna fight, and I'd drop a rock on all that. And when I was awake, and my old man came at me with his ring turned backwards, I'd dream about being a pigeon then too. And lookin' down on him. And hittin' him right in the head with a ten-pound rock.


So one day I went to the park to see what pigeons do, and there they all were, all the fuckin' pigeons in the world and you know what, they weren't doin' shit - like the rest of us, just hangin' around and fightin' over bottle caps and batteries like a bunch of diseased punks. Some of them had been ruffed up so bad that it looked like their feathers had been glued on. I was a little disappointed. When I walked back into the house, I accidentally tracked pigeon shit all over the carpet and Dad came at me and I knew what was gonna happen. I decided I didn't want to be a pigeon anymore. I wanted to be a hawk instead because hawks are focused. Sometimes it's so hard for me to focus on myself that I have to say my own name.


When I slept that night, I was a hawk with the wingspan of a city block carrying a thousand pound chunk of the Grand Canyon towards Central Park, where all the pigeons are. When I got there, I was gonna drop it, but I woke up too soon. Pigeons don't carry anything but diseases.

I never seen a real hawk before. People tell me they see 'em sometimes in the city.