It's Almost Over Now

Go on a tear.

I highly recommend it. It's spiritual, medicinal, but only sparingly. It reconnects you with the universe, and you realize that you are just one single organism on the back of a huge organism spinning around the sun.

Go on a mother- fucking tear, and see if I'm telling you the truth. Take your time. Plan on it. Set aside the time, clean the apartment because it'll get dirty when done. Stock up on some hooch. Some good hooch. Depending on how sociable you want to be, chose your drink carefully. Too strong, and you'll spend much of your time unconscious. Too weak and you'll just end up miserable. You've got to hit it just right, and in the proper proportions. Be smart...stay healthy...stay young.

Go on a goddamn tear.

Sunday I stayed home. Stayed in doors. Stayed out of sight. Except for one thing. I went out for Chinese food and a bottle of wine. A big fucking bottle of wine, and lots and lots of Chinese food. I piled the shit on. I was a smart creature, a cautious creature. I got egg rolls, and pork and shrimp fried rice. I got chicken and a nice red Cabernet Sauvignon. Dark red, dark. I got a huge bottle. I was going on vacation.

I listened to Sade and Steely Dan and surfed topics that I never surfed, finding myself lost in places on the Internet that I've never traversed. I'm doing good as the chicken worked its way into my system and the wine my mind. The night melted and I poured myself into my writing and e-mailing, and even phone calls. I reconnected with everyone. I would find myself sleeping fitfully. The hours moved past slowly, deliberately. I was happy to have the time to turn time into a string of hours having no day or night, just a long tunnel through which is passed through largely, like prey down the stomach of a snake.

I wrote poetry and found poetry and became poetry and felt sorry for all the souls crying out in Hell and laughed with all of the angels in heaven. I reveled in the silence of clashing cymbals, and rejoiced in the noise of one hand clapping. Life blurred, time dragged, pen to paper made strange noises. I was at the sincerest form of peace with myself and the myriad screaming voices in my head.

I awoke days later, naked on my bed, the sun not yet up. There was a level of forensic work that needed to be done. I needed to piece together the days, I needed to find things, I needed to let things go. I was back in the real world again. My vacation now over. Wine leaves no traces, no hangover, no shitty feeling, no bad taste in your mouth. Wine can fuck you up cleanly, leaving no marks, a gracious lover in the dark, giving as much as it takes. I was ready for a new world. I was back in charge. Clearly this was a vacation long in coming, and a pleasure denied only makes it a guilty pleasure in the long run.

Pleasure
keeping it
taking it
forsaking it
it bursts on the rocks bloodily
it coils from the light and into the dark
it seeks no creation
because it has no creator
it rests in our bosoms
it is in itself unique
nothing to be foresaken

I receive an email from the e-magazine that I write for.

Hey Hobo,

I hope everything is good. I know Frank already sent you a email to inform you we are going live soon but i wanted to email you personally. I enjoy your writing and had a idea i wanted your opinion on. We created a section called "CITY LIFE". It's a section were i envision stories about particular topics going on in the city written from a New Yorkers point of view, or even places to go or lost city places. let me know what you think?

Am I ready for this or what I ask you???

It's a new day folks. Go on a fucking tear.

Hobobob