Inspiration Dries Up

I felt like opening skin.

Yeah, I pared open some soul there about sex. I find it strange taking stock of some of my male friends. I'm not going to name names here, but some of them are as celibate as me. Sex is not plentiful in my circle of friends. It's weird because I was getting laid when I had a home. Alright, it wasn't wholesome sex. I didn't find lovers or friends, I just found lonely women. I guess I was lonely too. But I was at least getting laid.

When I hit the homeless scene, all that stopped.

I busied myself in my poetry, trying to become something that I felt I had no affinity for. I still don't. But I think I effectively replaced sex with prose. I like writing now. I try to write something every day, like Bukowski, I try to put something down on paper. Whether it's worth writing down or not. I'll agonize over it later. It's an editor's problem now. I'll just spoon it out of my brain like rancid custard. I scoop it out and throw it down.

But as I do so, I get periods of stillness. There are periods when nothing comes out. And it's frightening. More scary than not having intercourse, and I know how traumatic that can be for some men to find themselves impotent. To me it's no big deal. What is traumatic for me is the loss of words. When nothing comes out of me. Nothing. No screenplay, which I may say I have been ignoring for weeks now. No article ideas. No poetry, thank God that hasn't dried up totally. No Haiku's, no nothing. Well, I had a spate of short stories, so I'm not completely dry. But there was a time, not so long ago, that I was prolific. I was running off at the jibbs. I was unstoppable. I was feeling the joy of writing A LOT.

But now? What can I say?

I sit in the library. Moping. I go to the Twitter website and set up a Twitter account. Why? Be-fucking-cause. What else do you want me to do when I'm not writing? Play 2142 all my life? Although that's not all that bad an idea.

After going to Madison Starbucks, my brother and I meet up with an old friend MNM. He's a rapper but not by trade. He loves rapping though. It's his form of spoken word. He likes to use ghetto terms and the ghetto vernacular. He's very animate and exciting. He doesn't drink coffee at night, and I can see why. He's not one to need overexcitement. While talking to him my mind wanders to my mother and father, and how long its been since I talked to them. And also back to 2142. I think of stories and poems and things. At the wrong time, my soul seeks the solace of poetry. I wonder of all the things I can write about, of all the topics. I wonder of a great many things that inspire.

My muse has returned.

I listen to MNM for some time until he leaves, and I shortly leave thereafter. I walk and talk with my brother to the Way and I find something disturbing. I can't talk. I've lost the ability to speak clearly. Yeah, I know. I've neglected it for so long, I can't do a good job at it any longer. I stumble over too many words. My mouth has become frustrating mush. I ponder how much I speak during the day, and I'm surprised that I have sex as much as I get the opportunity to talk. Well, not that severe, but in relation to it, it's too low. I don't communicate in words to my fellow man any longer. I write to them, either through email or IM. The most conversation that I involve myself in is during the SHOUT OUT, and that I do reluctantly.

My psychia- trist, Doctor D. tells me that I will retreat into my own mind if given the chance. Yeah, he tells me that, and I shoo him off. But I'll be damned if he isn't right. I've allowed homelessness to change my habits. I was such an outgoing guy at one time. Jovial and easy. But now, I'm only that way with a certain few. For the most part, with all of the people that I meet on a daily basis, with all the people that I meet in the shelter, I'm pretty much withdrawn. The only person that I speak with on a day to day basis is my brother.

Strange huh?

I buy sardines, and Slim Jims and limp to the Way with my brother. My shoulder is not so bad, so I'll skip the Advil. My doctor, Doc A. tells me that it raises the blood pressure. I wish I knew that before I spent $12.00 for a box of a hundred of the fucks. How pain medication costs so much is beyond me. At least I have medication for the excruciating pain in my foot. COLCHICINE. I can't wait for my loose stool. I feel it coming now, and I'm only on my second pill.

I sit in the box, blogging, and I'm still in some pain in my shoulder. I'll have to make certain that I get a hit of TRAZADONE in the morning.

The lights go off, so I'll stop for now.

Hobobob