Fuck It All

It's fucking late and I should be in bed.

I'm just up because I want to be mean. I'm getting back at myself for something that I've done, I just don't know what. I'm sitting behind my computer, listening to Internet radio and typing away on my computer. Waiting on the heavy hand of sleep to rest upon me and turn my fucking lights out. Until then, I'm here, doing what I do best. Sweat bullets.

I'm running out of time on everything. I'm just sliding away into my destiny. I don't know where the fuck I'm going or what the fuck I'm doing anymore. I've gotten turned around and I can't find a way back to sanity. All of my compasses have spun, my dials and registers have failed. I'm looking out at the great ocean. There is nothing but horizon on the water in every direction. The ocean stretches out into the great curve of the Earth.

I have no direction, no course. I am going nowhere, the engines have long died. When I was in the men's shelter, I had a purpose, a goal, and that was to get the fuck out of the men's shelter. Simple if you ask me. Very simple. I'm out now, so now what the fuck? Get out of the SRO? I happen to like it here.

So...what the fuck am I doing? What am I doing today? Goddamned if I know. I'm just as surprised as you are. I have to get up at 8:00am tomorrow so as to get ready for FEGS in the morning. That's where I'll kill my entire morning, and in the afternoon, I have my psychologist. I'd better make sure that I get all of them in because there will come a day, very soon, where they will be taken from me. A nut without medical attention. Well, how do you like that??

I'm not so bad. I know some real crazy people. Oh...wasn't I bitching about my life? Yeah, that thing. My life. I'm standing out here in the middle of a field for some reason or another. I don't know what it is, but I'm here. I wonder what it is that I'm supposed to do. I feel that destiny has brought me here, sat me here, with my foes arrayed against me. I am no longer a homeless poet. I was the one that was supposed to end up drunken, in the streets, probably dying. Looks like I beat such a dismal outcome. I'm constantly moving up for some reason.

But I am no longer a homeless poet. I am no longer true to the game. Maybe that's why I feel so lost. I am not what I'm supposed to be. But shit, the streets were taking me apart. My pressure was up so high it was beginning to shut down my organs. The last time that happened, I had congestive heart failure. Well, being on the streets without my medication was killing me softly. I could not stay on the streets for my very health and welfare. I had to get a leg up.

With that leg up came perks. Like my SRO for instance. I was soon off the streets and in a bed with a roof over my head. My bad? I don't think so. I'm moving on, but now I'm faced with a crossroads. I don't see it, it's life...I feel it. There are just so many choices, so many variables that it's a nebulous decision that can't be made by the human mind. It has to be settled by chance. By blind, dumb luck at times. We can tilt certain things in our favor, but when we don't know where to tilt shit, that becomes a serious problem.

What I'm beginning to see is that it is the magic of life. I'm a control freak. I need to have everything fall into place, into some semblance of order. I have to have a direction, I have to have a purpose. I need to have a detailed road with a road map that has all of the on and off ramps. I'm a control freak. But I'm beginning to realize that life will take it's own course, and we, like a cork in a stream, can just bob on its surface and follow it to better places.

I have to believe that it'll lead me to better places. I mean, there's really nowhere to go but up for the most part. When you're low, you're pretty much low. I mean, I'm going to walk into FEGS tomorrow, but I really don't know what it is that I'm going to DO. Become an automaton, walking in and out of the Roach Motel as my job?

Good lord, can you believe that there are some people that actually WORK in that place every day? The thought of it causes my legs to buckle. My head does the same. I nod sharply. It's time for some sleep. I crawl into bed at 1:30 to wake up at 6:00am. What the fuck is this? I'm tired, can feel it. But I can't sleep. I lay and listen to the music coming from the Internet radio. Another morning. Good morning.

What's so go about it? Just because I'm alive? People are getting up, inhaling deeply, go to their windows and look out at the dawn. Canaries whirl and shoot past their windows, and rich, colorful flowers greet them. I'm fucking getting up to the gritty reality of survival. My morning is the light eking around the sides of my new air conditioner. Canaries are stars behind my eyelids, flowers are shoes. I inhale a morning cup of coffee.

Yeah, I'm getting up just to survive. It means that I'm living. It means that it's time for me to start swinging. Oh no, not my fists from punching, but rather from my neck by a hanging. Yeah. like a victim, I'm acted upon, my limbs powerless to help me. A perfect victim, alive to experience the violation, but without the ability to do anything about it, anything but hang.

I wish for whatever to happen to go ahead and happen already. I wish for whatever changes to come upon me come upon me, maybe to knock me down a couple of levels. Damn it's hard to move up further from here. Well, today I'm going to search for another job online. See what's out there today.

Another flare fired into the dark, only to shrink to a dot and sputter out.

I need to write more.

Hobobob