Change Your Seasons

Now, what's my problem?

I'm sitting in the Nightingale, alone, because I'm usually the first one in there before the reading, and all I want to do is go home and lay down. Am I dying of some strange disease? It causes one to waste away, bit by bit, until there is nothing left of us...or me.Yeah, I'm sitting in a bar, spending cash like hemorrhaging a vein and I'm not happy. Maybe it's because I'm bleeding money like a spigot.

That's one thing about the 'gale. She's beautiful as all hell, and the company is very fine, just like a hot date, but in the same vein...ha ha ha, vein, she'll also cost you a full boat load of money for her time. And this is money that I'm not in the mood to spend. So I grouse. My friends, the fellow poets and my brother comes in. I fool everyone except my brother, who thinks something other is on my mind, not the money. Maybe he's right.

I enter into a few conversations, drink a few beers, but soon, it's time for the coach to turn into a pumpkin. My brother is wanting for a drink, so I take him to a nearby liquor store and buy him a pint of Barcardi Rum, SPENDING MORE MONEY, and of course I buy myself a portable vodka also to take home. What the fuck? I was there in the store to begin with.

The train ride is unusual because it is almost empty. It is a great ride home, and I appreciate it. My day was long and difficult and it was a pleasure walking into my room with a Subway Philly Cheesesteak under my arm and a pint of hooch in my back pocket. Hey, the way I see it, we have Italy dealing with an Earthquake large enough to shake it's buildings into the Mediterranean Sea, and North Korea is losing it's mind firing missiles over everybody's fucking head. The world economy is in the fucking toilet...so I can have a pint of hooch to myself.

I check my email. I have 35 new emails! The majority of them are from my brother, his daily detritus that fills my box. Well, I shouldn't call it that. It's the SHOUT OUT data, that has to be followed scrupulously or there WILL be havoc. Managing poets is like herding cats. Without careful and sure direction, panic ensues. The rest of the emails are all junk mail. Invites to places I don't want to go, penis enlarging devices, fuck a hot sixteen year old in the ass tonight, shit like that. Who would have guessed that email could offer such jewels.

I strip down to my balls, take half of the Philly Chesse- steak and pour myself a tall glass of vodka and go to town. Yes, I like to do two things buck naked, surf the web and fuck. As un-hungry as I was, that fucking cheesesteak goes in no time. Son of a bitch. Not that I'm any hungrier, I'm just thinking that that dinner should have lasted longer. What the fuck do I do with food? Inhale it?

And then an observation hits. New York is crazy. It's probably the only city that is in and of itself, and huge meat market for the opposite sex. I mean, men for women and women for men, and all that stuff in between. Everyone is hitting on everyone in this turn of the season. Yeah, it's true. The women dress more provocative, the men, more studly. Everyone is busy showing off their new bodies that they worked so hard over the Wintertime to cultivate, and their new clothing and strut and prance about like cockatoos. What the fuck?

Yes, I'm sitting in the L train, riding home and there is a woman sitting across from me, and I don't notice her, because, as usual I'm in a book. I'm reading that fucking THE WATCHMEN graphic novel that D2theL gave me, and then something tells me to look up. Now that's another thing that want to talk about, but I'll do that in a moment. I look up, right, and this crystal eyed kitten is staring back at me. I'm stunned because she is shocking. She sees me looking at her stupidly and smiles back. The train doors open and she stands dressed in a sheer black body hugging mini-dress and high silver heels, walking off with an extra helping of female locomotion. Where the fuck was she going??

New York in the Springtime. You gotta love it.

Then comes my SEVENTH sense. I don't know about you but I have this uncanny ability to know when someone ...wait. Let me ask you if this has ever happened to you. You are riding in a train, bus, in a business meeting, at a party, or sitting with your fellow poets, and you turn your head around. You look in a direction you never thought to look before, and there, RIGHT THERE, you find your eyes meet someone staring at you behind your back. I mean, POW, your eyes meet. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT??

It happens to me all of the time. I just know when someone is staring at me. It turn my head, and catch them in the act so coldly, that they avert their eyes in an instant. I busted you motherfucker!! How did I do it? Shit, I don't know. My brain just has another eye in it that finds these things out. It hunts down eyes that are searching for me and singles them out. After awhile though, that shit gets to be unnerving.

Like when you catch some really big bruiser type staring at you...and you avert YOUR eyes. OR when you find some sex kitten staring at you and you go into jackass pose. Yeah, that's what I call it. To stunned to look away, to shamed to keep staring, so you take the middle of the road, you turn into a doofus.

New York in the Springtime. You gotta love it.

I'm going to surf until the sun comes up, and then get out and go to my therapist session. I HAVE to start going to this guy! I just find it so hard to. I hate being in that room with eight other bozos, closed up and asked to express how I feel. I want to express myself. I want to leave. How can I enjoy therapy when it means I have to suffer a group of people around a table. At least in the 'gale, it's a table for five. FOUR if we don't feel like crowding around.

Fuck it.

I'm surfing.

Hobobob