Step Up to Get Smacked Down

I did it.

I was at the SHOUT OUT fifteen minutes early and went to the corner liquor store and build a fucking portable. You know...water bottle, quarter filled; pint of vodka; mix, shake, drink. I had the SHOUT OUT to do today by myself, so my logic was clear...why do it sober? That was some bullshit. I was drinking my ass off.

The poets were strolling in, signing in. We had a thin crowd early but I didn't give a shit. I was going to give everyone five minutes anyway. Even the feature had not arrived by the time I got started with the SHOUT OUT. We took off like a shot, with the readers moving at a pretty good clip. I was surprised as to the speed that we were traveling. Then our feature arrived. Diminutive and intense, JL is a fireball. I can't wait until she reads.

I take us through the intermission and go outside with T-fuk, and he pulls out his Roscoe and packs me a one-hit. I light that rocket and blow my brains out just as sure as if it was a .357 magnum. I walk in grinning as if I saw Aretha Franklin's asshole. I introduce JL and we move on with the SHOUT OUT. I move us to close down on time. Cyndi Lauper starts blasting the music at six sharp, her DJ taking the wheel to spin his ratshit skills. My mother is a better DJ and she's almost fucking deaf. This prick's only skill with a turntable is the volume control.

I get 'er done. The SHOUT OUT is over. People were slipping out before it's finish, proving that the reading was going into overtime and losing energy. I broke it off not a moment too soon. Good night everyone, and I'll see you next week. Peace.

It was over. I broke up the stage and took my time. I was tired and I wanted to bang off this baby and head home. Oz and G-Hard were there, D-lite, and JL, they were going to hang out afterwards. I was fucked in the head. I wasn't in the mood. I wanted home more than anything. Antisocial? No. Grateful that it was all over? Yes. I said my goodnights, shook my hands, and hopped my ass on an uptown train. To prove my point about being too tired I rode past the 6th avenue stop on the L train to the last stop at 8th Avenue.

Waiting at the Eighth Avenue stop my bladder fails and I have to go. The platform is not all that crowded so I head down the station and then down the tube into the tracks, going behind one of the pillars in the dark, with the soot, roaches and rats to take a piss. I listened for an oncoming train because it would be a shame if my dumb, urinating ass gets spread along the wall of this station like red jam with shirt and slacks. The only thing recognizable other than a huge red smear with shoes would be my dick lolling from the opened fly of a blood drenched pair of pants. Nice fucking end for a nice dumb ass.

But SHIT, I had to go.

Push me far enough, I'll piss in public. Still, you think that I had all of my head on my shoulders, you're wrong. I hopped on the number two heading downtown in a fucking hurry, carrying me to Brooklyn. TO BROOKLYN!! Damn. I had to slip off the train at Chambers and catch the uptown train which this time roared my slapped ass home.

The subway is like a huge children's maze when you're stoned. I like being stoned at home, where I can study the paint patterns on the walls and chase my own ass in the shadows. There's a lot to do when you're fucked up! I step into my home, throw my back against the door, close my eyes.

Hobobob