Running Uphill Motherfucker

Saturday Morning.

I hate it. I really hate Saturday Morning. I rise, move about my morning. I try to get ready. I really do. It's a fucking chore, because I DON'T WANT TO GO TO THE SHOUT OUT. Alright, I said it. Fuck me if you'd like. I just don't want to do it. I'm stressed out. I don't know how the audience will take it, take me. I want to run, but the show must go on. I get ready early today, very early, pack all of my gear and get the fuck out. Because I'm ready to face the day. I'm a pussy, what can I say. I'll catastrophize and whine and moan, but I got to go.

I get to the 96 street station, only to learn that there are no downtown trains. Everything is uptown to 110th street. I do that. I do what I'm told, because, as usual, I have no choice. Fuck me sideways. I ride a fucking local train down to 14th street and then the L over to Ottos. Needless to say, I am there early, thank God. I hang out with the poets and comedians gathering out in front of the building. Soon, a new bartender opens the door. I thank her and get to work setting up the stage. I am all electric. I don't think of a drink at the bar. I'm going to do this myself. MYSELF...ha ha ha ha ha ha

I work hard, getting everything together and then I start the SHOUT OUT. There is no OBSIDIAN. I understand the difference between my hosting and OBSIDIAN's. He socializes. I do not. I'm not welcomed like he is. So, that's the breaks. I go from reader to reader, pushing as many through before the break as possible to give room to the people coming in late. I try my best to do a good job, because the poets deserve NO FUCKING LESS.

Everyone gets a chance to read. OBSIDIAN shows and he takes the second half. Super. I was getting tired. HE whips the audience up into a frenzy and the acts are on target. The close out is a bang. It was incredible. Even OBSIDIAN's love poem knocks the house down. Stupendous. I ask the be at the very end. The very end. D-lite goes up and reads a powerful poem about 118th street and it goes over excellently. Then, my brother, OBSIDIAN, calls me to the stage. I'm the bozo to give the last poem.

I'm the fucking bozo. But I have to tell you....I was not afraid. I read my two measley poems from my new book, RESTING THE CHEMISTRY and got the fuck off the stage. Afterward, I broke down the stage...because, that's what I do. I manage the SHOUT OUT. And then someone caught my shoulder. It was Arlene, a fellow poet. What? "I just want to tell you that you need to read more of your poems. I come here to hear you." Wha??? "There is a need for strong poets, and you are one of them. A venue can take a few weak poets...but it needs a strong one, if you understand me."

I was taken aback. Someone thinks that....

The Feature comes up to me. So does OBSIDIAN. John, the Feature, THE FEATURE says: "I love your work. I heard you last week and I want some of your poems. Last week, I was really moved. I love your work." Wha??

I walked out of Otto's with my brother, bewildered. I never thought anyone gave a shit about my poems. No one. I was tired. We went to Kennedy's Fried Chicken, where my brother and I always go. I did the usual. I got pies. Yeah, fuck my diet....no, that's a lie. I calculated the caloric budget of the pies. And more....

My brother and I rode the Way to Madison Starbucks, but on the way, my brother wanted to go to a liquor store. I thought about it, I really fucking thought about it, but the draw was too much. I am longing for my old self. There is a faint memory of a man that used to live life. A ghost image of some smoke, some mirrors. There is nothing there of course, but there really is. There is something there that's not tangible, I can feel it as if it was really there. As if was me. It is me.

Oh you heard all this fucking shit before. You heard all the excuses. I can't lie to you. But I was lying to myself. I can't deal with this world without tons of drugs in my system. I can take that or liquor. I chose to fall off for tonight. Just tonight.

I buy a pint of Stoli and we go to Starbucks. I make Irish coffee and write the shit out of my novel. The more I drink, the more I write. I am focused, I am rare. I am once again in the zone. The barriers fell down then. It was as if I got a goddamn epiphany. The fucking building opened up, and I jumped to my feet, and all the power, and all the glory rested upon me. Son of a bitch.

Fuck me.

It was time to leave. And my brother and I take the way uptown and get off at 96th street and bullshit. We bullshit for an hour. In my bag, I had my pint, and from time to time I would lift it out for a swig. I was ready for the world. I bullshitted until tired. Tired of the planet, tired of the cells in my body, tired of the blood flowing in my veins. Tired of all the shit that I've been spooned. Tired, of being afraid, tired of catastrophizing.

God help me. But, as I walked home, I made the mistake of listening to the Aja album by Steely Dan, and in it, I heard a song that I dubbed my theme song for my life WHEN I WAS EIGHTEEN. And there, right there I realized something. STEELY DAN SAID IT BE FORE ME.

"I'll make it this time I'm ready to cross that fine line."

I'm ready to make my decision. Dr. L said that I would get here and GODDAMN, SHE WAS RIGHT. I have finally took the pebble from the master's hand. It is time to move on. I've done this. I've been there. The MAN must emerge. Good, bad, ugly, whatever. You be the judge.

There is a freedom in this. There is a freedom in being where I am right now.

I can't fight my nature any longer.

I finish my pint. It's time for bed

Hobobob