Old Dogs, Same Digs

Roundtree continues to unpack.

He has an enormous amount of stuff. He is a religious man now. He has found God and doesn't do crack anymore. He has lost a lot of weight, that's the reason why it was hard for me to recognize him. It took me a little time to place him in the stream of time here. But when I did, I was glad even more that he was my bed mate.

He lifts up the mattress of his bed and finds the compartment under it. He lifts open its door and smiles, looking back at me. "Ah ha, I found a secret DEPARTMENT." I never said that my boy was well educated.

"I'm going upstairs in three days," he says. "I need one of those big lockers. I don't have enough room for all my stuff." Really? How much do you have? You really going upstairs? "I've been blessed," he says with a broad smile. "I've been blessed. I've been brought back to the city by God. He wants me here, so here I am." And you're going upstairs? "Yeah, I need one of those big lockers." I hear you.

Too bad for me. But in the long run, I'll have three days of bliss until then. That's not too bad. Now here's the amazing thing. Another old friend of mine has returned also. Willie. But he has been back for about two weeks now, and he and Roundtree are like Frick and Frack. Willie walks into our Dorm, an absolute no no, going straight to Roundtree and asks for his cellphone back. They banter back and forth, and I can tell immediately tell that Willie's voice is terribly slurred. He turns to me, pointing at me with a wavering arm. "This motherfucker is still here," he says to Roundtree. "After all these years, he's still here. He ain't never gonna leave." I can tell from here that my man Willie is seriously fucked up. He's tore up from the floor up. I wonder how he roams back and forth through the halls in such condition. They laugh. We are all old hounds in around the new guys. Willie staggers off after awhile, leaving Roundtree to continue unpacking.

In the morning I wonder if I should get up. It's Six in the Morning. As this single thought goes through my head, it's Six Thirty. I get up and take a break from the calisthenics today. Yesterday, it was just too easy to do twenty push ups and sit ups, so I added another ten and damn did that hurt. It felt just like when I started. I'm guessing that in two weeks this will become easy. I get up and pack my gear. The Dorm was slowly coming alive. I skedaddle, heading to the Broadway Starbucks.

I sit and nod off, over and over again, just killing time until the beginning of the SHOUT OUT. Around that time I get the news. Another one of our fellow poets has died, and so has Paul Neuman.

Death, an interesting thing for us who continue to live. It is the predator of our lives. It runs behind the herd, chasing and bringing down the weak, the unwary. It's a sobering thing, it colors our world. When you don't think of it, it doesn't exist. Only when someone actually does die do you get a cold slap in the face. It's here, and it floats just inches away from flesh. It seeks for every opportunity to claim you. Be it untimely, or just old age like my parents. Either way, we wait for it to claim us, whether we believe in it or not.

I'm thinking this now, how death is so close to the skin. And I resolve myself. I decide for myself that now is the time to act. To act decisively but not an overall action, because the question bears: Act decisively doing what? Yes, what? So my act to act decisively is to do so in regards to all things. Starting with the littlest of things. Because all huge things, such as life itself, is made up of an infinitely small number of minute things, tiny decisions, small movements, multiplied over a span of time. Here is where you take control over your life. It is in the microcosm that you can effect real change.

I decide that I am going to change everything now, because the time left for me is shorter than the time going in. My poet friend was MY AGE. Simple as that. His death was sudden and untimely, and he was of relatively good health. What is my problem? What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm whining and crying about the brass ring, but I'm also floating in a state of amber. In a state of inactivity.

Shit, now is the time to act, and act with conviction. I'm not letting go of anything my heart desires. Not easily anyway. I'm taking all the fucked up chances. I'm going for the longshots. I'm swearing to you now that I vow to defy all odds. If I see a chance I'll take it. That's all folks.

And that's why I'm here. That's why I'm standing in the middle of a field under cultivation. Nothing has grown, but there are many sprouts. Time will tell if my decisions have led me to a Heaven or to a Hell, but I can tell you, I came from Hell. I can do no worse by taking the rudder of my life now. I'm clear now. I'm very clear.

I have another memorial to go to in the coming days, and soon thereafter my own. That's the way that I see it. If I keep breathing I'll invite all of you to my memorial. I'm going to have all that I want before I go there though. Or fail at trying. But at least I'll fail trying, not crying.

And I'll be able to tell when it's my memorial.

I'll be the one not drinking.

Hobobob