Disabled But Not Bowed

I'm preparing for the SHOUT OUT.

In front of me is a young, handsome man wearing a button that reads: 'I am Deaf and Blind'. He is not wearing shades, and his eyes seem to work quite fine. I even find it hard to look at him for fear of him turning to regard my stare. He comes to the table with a woman and she does sign language that he reads with a hand on hers. He can't see her. He couldn't hear her if she spoke to him. He no doubt wears the button because he appears so normal, he acts so self sufficient. It takes only slight touches with his fingertips to locate the table, his chair, the cup of iced tea. He looks about through focused eyes that can see nothing. People like me avert their gaze. Can he not see them??

He makes expectant facial expressions, then of concern, then of concentration. I watch him, almost hypnotized by him. He is not what I would expect a double disabled to be like. He is happy with the woman that he is with, kissing her repeatedly.

I wonder what it must be like never really knowing the world around you. Not knowing what things look like, or what they sound like. To be born with these disabilities. Have you ever wondered how you life would have turned out had you had these problems. And yet they do so well. They conquer these things. And then I look at my problems in comparison, and do I have reason to feel defeated?? Do I have reason to believe that everything has gone from bad to shit? There are a million other outcomes for me. A million other Hells that I can find myself, in. And yet, as I know you know, I bitch and moan.

I crank and complain like something is honestly going to be done by me if I raise enough of a stink. Yeah. I'm content to just dissipate. God help those who want to be helpless. It seems that my paltry efforts to change my life are just too small to do anything. My feeble moves are just too feeble. Like the minute twitching of a dying man.

I want to overcome, like this deaf and blind person here. I want to one day rise above this, triumphant. Not otherwise. That's the scope of my thinking just before the SHOUT OUT. Idle ruminations on the world around me. There is so much life, like a fishtank in school. It is teeming with people of all size and shapes. The Eye of God is just that. The best seat in the house. I get up early to get here, and will stay all day to stay here. The deaf and blind couple leave and I start to get drowsy again. There is nothing left to focus on.

James pops up on IM, giving me something to do until it's time for me to leave. I set off on my walk over to OTTO's and hit the joint twenty minutes early to find it opened. Well the gate was up but the door was locked. Inside there was a new bartender and my heart soared. I had just spent time on IM with James complaining about our present bartender, the poor man's Cyndi Lauper. That's what we call her. Cyndi Lauper the bitch. She's terrible, with a rotten to the core attitude. She so oblivious of her rank personality that she actually blames the poets for not tipping her. As part of her charm, she blasts music in the bar while we are having readings in the back. Even though there is no one at the bar where she is at to listen.

Now, I'm not one to condone violence against women but I swear, I really, really wish that I had one bad-assed mtoherfucking girlfriend who could come in and whup her short, nasty ass down on a Saturday afternoon until Monday morning. Throw her such a fucking beating that my girlfriend can't raise her arms to beat on her any longer. I would give out front row tickets and serve beer free from her own bar.

That's how much I dislike this wench. I wish I could glue her naked to the ceiling and let her skin tear from her bones as the weight of her body peels her free.

God, where do I get these things from? I have an overactive imagination. But I do dislike her. She walks in when she pleases and lets me in. I hurry to the back and begin setting up the stage. We are late getting started because, basically not enough people showed. JM was throwing his once a month reading on the same Saturday as ours, and he had a greater pull than we. Our feature was faced with reading to an audience of five. We decided to go in circles until more people showed. I had a chance to read twice. I saved this one for last:

IMAGINE NOT A ROSE

The stem of a rose
Is not a rose,
Neither are the thorns
The stuff of petals

The bush of a rose
is not a rose
It's leaves
Are not one either.

I imagine a rose to be
Your lips in the summer sun.
Kissed by the morning dew
Red from your rushing blood

I imagine a rose
To be the smell of you
And soft
As a petal's touch

It's pointless to ask me who's it for. I'll never tell. They've been coming out of me with an alarming rapidity. It was a fucking pleasure to read it to the audience. It was like releasing pressure from behind my ribcage. Finally some people began to trickle into the venue, and when we hit the magic number, off we started. It was a lively crew, and Cyndi Lauper didn't turn up the music until later. We were almost done when she did. That was good. She earned another twelve hours to live.

Afterwards, my brother and I head to Union Square Park where I take my fried chicken wings from the corner store, and eat dinner, watching the New York Rabbits run around. Now, those of you who know the city obviously know that there are no such things as rabbits in New York. So what must I be talking about? Well, our rats are about the size of rabbits in some areas. So, hence they get their name. We see their effects before we see them. Men and women both hop up on the benches, some run off, others sit with their legs up on the bench seats. The fun part is when one of the rabbits runs under the length of a bench, and the people stand up, one next to the other, like a wave in a football stadium.

My brother and I don't move. We are inured from our years sleeping with them in Bryant Park, from when you can fit five or six of them in one palm. We call them 'pixies' when they are that size. But oh how quickly they grow up! These little bastards turn into rabbits faster than you can count the change of the season. And they are well fed. That's why they get so big. They're better fed than us homeless people at times. They dine at the Four Star Restaurants in the city, or on the scraps from the average joe. But food is plentiful.

I guess it's the same for us homeless people too. Food is plentiful.

I finish dinner, finish laughing with my brother. He leans into me, frowning. "Why are all of you're poems so depressing?" He asks. It's because I'm a miserable motherfucker. "Yeah, but they are ALWAYS depressing." I haven't taken my WELLBUTRIN in a couple of days. My emotions are out of wack. "It's just that I haven't noticed it before." I'm manic depressive bro, that's my diagnosis. "Bi-polar," he continues. Yeah, that too.

I leave for the Box, heading down Broadway. It is cool out, but not cold. It is a refreshing evening in the city. I find myself happy to be alive here.

Even the Box is not enough to dampen my spirit. I sit behind my laptop as usual, and I get a few IM's. I'm happy. I'm blogging. I'm productive. Better that than the alternative. Falling backwards into my own brain. It' s a bottomless pit back there. That's where you don't want to go. There's no coming back.

The living dead.

Hobobob