The Hammer and Survival

Haven't a clue.

What the fuck to do. I just know, that I want to see you. Just a poem I'm working on. Yeah, that's right, it's early in the morning and I'm sitting naked, as usual, in front of my computer. Yesterday was a day where I got up grumpy. A grouch, but as the morning wore on, I cheered up. Today was the SHOUT OUT. Not that I'm saying that the SHOUT OUT has anything to do with my disposition, I just got some good news for a change.

Yeah. I get good news sometimes. I checked my roscoe. Nothing could be scratched from within it. Damn. Bad news again. I packed up my shit, both backpacks, and headed out the door. The Way moved quickly and I ended up at the SHOUT OUT early. The establishment had not been opened yet, so I hung outside with my fellow poets, waiting.

There were only four of us, and when the establish- ment did open we filed in and waited. And waited. There were only four of us at the SHOUT OUT, and when the feature came, we were only seven strong. But that was alright, we had the show anyway and it went off as an intimate group of friends enjoying poetry.

Afterward, my brother and I head to Starbucks and surf. I work on his computer for awhile. He's having one problem after another with his laptop, which can become annoying to a user. But hopefully a friend of his and I can get him straightened out. Soon, I move on, heading home and spent the rest of the night online and the morning.

I am invited to contribute at a private reading at 'Nessa's house, also known as the Dusty Kitty, on Sunday. I headed out there at around five and was standing in her backyard, watching as the guests filled the area. I stood there, dead calm from the LUVOX. I just happened to look at the back of my hand, raising it up to my face, and there was a tiny mosquito alight there, his tongue deep into the back of my hand and I didn't feel shit. He finished took off, circled, landed again on the back of my hand, took a few steps and dug in again.

Dug in again.

Why so greedy? Why not fly off to someone else. This backyard was filled with pulsing arteries, why so intent on the back of my hand. I swatted him, smashing his tiny body into a stain of blood. With a flick of my nail I rid my skin of his carcass and notice that the back of my hand is covered with welts. He was harder at work than I knew.

I looked at the back of my other hand, my arms. Everything looked normal, but around me buzzed more mosquitos tiredly in the air. This was survival for them. What was survival for us? Was it breathing, eating? Poetry? Am I surviving? Or just living like a mosquito on the back of some ponderous hand, waiting for the other to fall.

Musicians and other poets read and it was called upon me to step up to the forefront of a good number of people as audience. I stood before them, my body calm, my head clear. The LUVOX is unbelievable. There was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to make me nervous. My mosquito stung hands did not shake. I read with inflection and feeling than just reading through my work and getting the fuck down as quickly as humanly possible. The audience applauded and asked that I return for an encore. I was stunned. Amazed even, that my work is listen-able. Passable for REAL poetry. I am happy.

I go on the eat some of the delicious food at the function and spend much of my time with the jalapeno poppers and beer. In no time I am struck in the head, my mouth afire. I stagger out in the night, feeling no pain for the moment, but having to take a mean leak on the train. I read a book to keep my mind off the issue, but I'm not beyond pissing in my pants if need be. I make it home, my stomach now burning wildly. I wonder why, completely confused, having already forgotten about the poppers. I sit down and call my dope connection...well not my connection, but the number that I have. I speak to Tom who plays dumb. Once I spell out what I'm looking for he asks why does my number not come up on his caller ID. I tell him that I'm using my computer to call him. He has nothing for me tonight. Call him another time. He hangs up. Fuck. No smoke for tonight. I can't catch a....

My stomach does a violent left turn. I run to the bathroom and upon opening the door to my favorite bathroom there is the strong fecal smell. Slipping inside, I am greeted with what I can only describe as a shit explosion around the toilet and running up the wall and on the floor. Someone not only didn't make it to the toilet, their entire body shattered to pieces in the process. I walk back out, closing the door tightly behind me and go across the hall to the other bathroom, hurriedly getting on the bowl before I make a second explosion in the next john.

I get online later for awhile, and then hit the sack. I have the WEP assignment to go to tomorrow, but fuck them. I have a meeting with my caseworker at ICD tomorrow. I'll deal with her then. She'll probably either lay down the law or the hammer upon the back of my mosquito bitten hand. I expect the hammer. They're not known all that much for their warnings. It's funny. I'm not worried to no end like I normally would be facing the unknown and uncertain.

I sleep like a baby.

Hobobob