The Bitter Cold of Change

I take the #1 train uptown.

It's cold out. Really cold. I'm not liking this weather. It's brutal, its mean, it's winter. I get off at 137th street and head back out into the cold again. It's FUCKING FREEZING. I have to march now, in the cold, down the avenue, up 136th street, which is so uphill that that shit is like mountain climbing. I struggle up the side of Everest and take a right on Amsterdam Avenue, and half way down the block I run across La Pregunta.

Inside it is warm and comfortable, and I immediately find MTK and Brother Bernard eating buffalo wings at one of the tables. We embrace and shake hands. MTK, the wonderful hostess, tells me that I can go have a drink at the bar and welcomes me to buffalo wings. I indulge and find a table far from the stage. Faces come in, I shake hands, I am glad to be here. It's been a long time since I was sociable and it felt good. Something that I must do more often. I soon tire though and retreat to my beers and my table. My brother, OBSIDIAN soon arrives, and he is busy talking and being introduced. Soon, he hustles over to the table, telling me that we have a lot to talk about before we begin our Feature. We talk, we discuss, we prepare.

Soon, MTK starts the events and T-Fuk, the first feature, goes up and does a masterful job. He is out of control, and thoughtful. He is off the hook and I am amazed at his talent and skill. He is indeed a master of this art from. A true poet, like D2theL and my brother. They are very good. I think of my swill then. I shake my head. I am just obnoxious. Soon, after several other poets, my brother and I are called to the stage. My Brother comes up banging to beer bottles together as we mount the stage, and as he's talking on the mike, they shatter. I saw that on on the horizon.

I begin the reading, reading my dirty limericks which go over good, my poems, so so. They are flat, lifeless, meaning- less. I am not moved, how can I move anyone else? I do my best though. Back and forth, my brother and I go, we work on our show, and then we have the last poem, Officer Clancy, which he printed out from the website with its black background on blacker print. Almost impossible to see. We fuck it up royally. It's like two blind men trying to find pussy. Impossible.

The reading ends and we all break up. There is some socializing, but people are breaking out of the venue and heading out to go to Dinosaur BBQ for some hot ribs. The thought of it sounds great, but unless an alien craft lowers and drops cash into my hands, it will only sound great to me. That's one thing that I'm going to have to rectify for 2010. I'm going to have money. I'm going to shed my hobo status and re-enter the real world. I'm going to break out of my hobo status with an sharp explosion that will cause surprise and shock. The Hobo is dead!! Long live the Hobo in 2010!!

IF I have a reversal of fortune, would I still be a hobo? Probably on the inside then, not on the outside. I'll be a Bob instead. I just want to change now. I just want something different. I've lived this life going on five years. I'm growing tired of it. I need a change. I need to get up and get the fuck out of this hole. I need to see myself clear of all of this, to some bright blue waters, not this brackish lake that my stagnated life has found itself in. I need to get out this year.

My brother and I head back down to the Way through the bitter cold of the night and downtown. I get home, to my quiet space pod. Another reading done. I am happy. I am home. Things are almost done for the year. 2009 is drawing to a close. What is going to be made of it? What is going to be the year in review? With me slowly melting down to a pool of poems? Coming apart at the seams, weighed down by a pharmaceutical anchor? Fuck my life.

I say let's take it all on in 2010! I say take no prisoners. All the risks, all the dangers, none of the benefits. I say let's go for the gusto.

Tomorrow is New Year's Eve.

See you then,

Hobobob