A Lighter Shade of Nothing

I'm not writing much lately.

A lot of people come to my blog and find nothing new and have come to the conclusion that I am done with making posts. I have been for the most part. I have been tired of writing and bitching and complaining. I'm in a good place in my life now so I've run out of things to crank over. So what do I write about now?

I am tired of spinning hate and vitriol although there is still a lot of piss and vinegar in my veins. I'm tired of writing about homelessness because I am no longer homeless. I am tired about writing about the lower rung of the social strata, being lost in the maze of The System. I'm no longer lost, and I'm walking into the light. So what is there to bitch or crank about now?

Nothing that I can think of. Maybe I can make my blog a poetry blog? Write my poems and post them all here for all the world to enjoy the sweet taste of life and the wonderful swirl of being alive! Naaaah, that's being done so much in the blogosphere that I'm sick of running into blogs like those. If all the poetry blogs were to go up in flames right now, no one would miss them. Well, maybe a few.

Maybe I can make this a political blog. Where I can bitch and moan about the issues. Naaaah, there are enough of them too. There's more of them than poetry blogs, and if they both were to go up in flames, they would generate enough heat to pop a single kernel of corn.

So, what the fuck? What do I write about? I don't know. So that's the reason why I haven't been writing. That is the long and short of it.

Although I would not mind talking about a job that OBSIDIAN and I just did, which is to become television people. Yeah, that's right. A television producer has been asking OBSIDIAN and myself for some time if we wanted to be on his television program. We've been trying to jive our schedules. Either I or OBSIDIAN or the producer had something that got in the way, but this week, after a concerted effort, we got together at Madison Square Park.

He came with his camera and interviewed us for his public access show and we were happy to have the opportunity to tell our story over the airwaves once more. We also read a few poems and that was all that she wrote. From there we went out to lunch with the producer and we bounced around some ideas. One of which was a documentary about our journey through homelessness and how poetry was an essential part of that journey. That sounds like a pretty mighty idea that needs further fleshing out. Another one was a public access television show. A show with OBSIDIAN and myself hosting, which would be a pretty good idea, if OBSIDIAN and I can ever be able to work together again. OBSIDIAN is a pretty fine friend and a more excellent brother, but he sucks as a collaborator. Over the course of time he has the tendency of seeing himself as boss of something, especially me. I'm too fucking grown to have a boss that ain't paying me a salary. Simple as that.

But if we could get past this colla- borative block and work together, a possible colla- borative effort might be in the future. In any case, there is a great deal that is blossoming on the horizon. Both him and I are struggling to get out of the predicament that we are in, off the public dole, and self-sustaining citizens, productive in society once more. But it takes a herculean effort and consistent energy.

Hopefully, the future pages of this blog will be of this new struggle, and not past grief. Hopefully, there is a new story to tell, and not one to gripe over.

Hopefully, this is an ending....and a new beginning.

Hobobob

Breaking the Back of the Jellyfish

I'm not happy.

I don't care if you think I am. I'm not a happy camper... ever. There are just some things that can't be changed or derailed. One thing is for certain, you can't derail my bad groove. People and things put me there. Especially the people in my building. I'm not knocking them, I know that problem is me for the most part because I hate to leave my room. I hate to walk outside and be seen by people because there is a threat to my life. OR it feels that way.

When I walk outside the clock is ticking. I have to get out and get back before time is up. I am moving hard. In and out. So I hate being detained because some Skek feels like talking, and Skeks ALWAYS feel like talking. So I go downstairs, do some light shopping and on returning to my mailbox there is a screwball standing in the center of the corridor to the elevator. He is gesticulating to me with his hand. Is he saying hello? I frown, my face reading: What the Fuck?

“Do you have a pen?” He finally calls out, realizing that I can't read his one handed sign language. I go to the post office box, and pull out a ton of mail. I don't go to the mailbox often because I don't go out often. So I fist my mail and head to the elevator and my friend in the hall gets in too. While riding up the elevator this gasbag looks at my mail and says: “Don't go to your mailbox often?” No, I don't. “Neither do I. When I do I have nothing but bills.” I'm sad to hear that. “That's all I get, and a letter from the ASPCA, asking me for a donation.” My eyes roll, my mouth yawns.

The elevator doors open and jughead steps out. Stopping at the elevator threshold, he turns around to me and holds the door open. “Like I have money for the ASPCA. I say save the whales, right?” I look at him, my blood pressure rising. “I'm not a cat person anyway, and they have pictures of these sad cats on the paper. Who cares, right?” Yeah, who cares, my mind throbs. I'm about ready to blow my stack. This numbskull is under the impression that this conversation is holding my attention.

My response is to sigh openly and stare him down angrily. The message: Get off the fucking door. I do and he reads me clearly. “Yeah,” he says and takes a step back, releasing the door. I reach over and press door close and it does in his face. Thank God. I ride up and see Paula and other non-essentials in my hallway. I mumble hello and make it do my door, opening it and slipping inside. I am happy now. The good thing in my life is my four walls and a ceiling.

Life's been good to me so far.

Hobobob

Finding Others Without Compasses

I like being alive.

I write poetry when I can. I like poetry too. What do you say about that? I also struggle and fight, because every day is bedlam. Yes, mayhem walks my streets and I have to pay respects. I don't fuck around because, honestly, if I do, I'll have my ass handed to me. That's one thing that I don't like, getting shoed in the ass and pulling someone's fist out of my eye.

Take today for instance. I had a lot to do. For one thing, I had to get on the ball about my hernia operation. I can't keep letting this thing slide before it turns fucked up dangerous. That won't be funny at all. Death because my hernia turned back and corrupted my intestines. Death because I was just too damned lazy to get my ass up and get checked out and have it dealt with. Look, I'm turning 50 this year. That means that my lights can go out at any minute. I don't have youth on my side anymore. Translation: I'd better take care of myself or take a dirt nap. Otherwise known as 'sleeping with earthworms up your ass.'

So today, I took a shower, combed my hair, dressed up in clean clothes and underwear and headed to the Metropolitan Hospital. I had an appointment to see Dr. Feelgood and I wanted to get to them today. Knowing how fucked up things are in hospitals with their 'hurry up and wait' attitude, I dulled my senses. Oh no, not with alcohol or drugs, I have a dial in my head where I can dumb myself down and not feel anything from the masses. I close my mind off to the world around me. This is imperative, especially when I'm around crowds. I can't handle that shit. So I shut my head down.

So I got on the bus, which was imme- diately packed full. That's why I hate the crosstown 96, because when you get on it, every other New Yorker has to get on right behind you. It's so packed that the fucking elderly are crowd surfing over your fucking head. So I ride this packed bus all the way to the Metropolitan Hospital and head to the information desk. Hey lady, good afternoon, I say: which way to the third floor clinic? “All the way down the hall and to the right.” I look down a long hallway. I turn back to her. That's it? “That's it,” she replied. What? No elevator? “Yes, that too.” I blink. Can I have the full directions for the third floor clinic? I walk off. Obviously this is a harbinger of what's in store.

I go down the end of this hall, which I swear had to be a long as a football field and at the end, on my right, are the elevators. I take one to the third floor and follow the signs to the clinic. When I walk in there are six windows and a waiting room in front of each window. I look around, thinking, and then I head to one, window number 3. There is a nurse behind the window on the phone. I wait for her...and wait for her. When done, she speaks into a mic, calling out a name. I'm standing there and a woman comes from the waiting room and answers the call. The nurse looks at me: “She's next.” Right bitch. I have a question, I say to her. Is Dr. Feelgood here at this window. She's pissed that I'm not jumping out of the way. “Do you have a registration card?” Yes I do. I hand it to her. She looks it over. “This is expired. Go to the center window and get your card renewed, then come back to me.”

Cool. I go to the center window and go straight to Window C out of three windows. A woman is sitting there on the computer, taking her time, ignoring me. After she gets bored of seeing my ugly mug she looks up. “Window A,” she says. Why the fuck didn't you say that earlier, bitch? I mean, I didn't say this to her, but I sure thought it. I go to Window A and a guy moves the line pretty quickly. When I reach him I tell him about my expired card. “What are you talking about?” He asks me. Well, that's what the potato-head at window 3 told me. “These things expire?” He looks at my card, then hands it back. “Here you go.” He lifts up a clipboard with a form and a pen. “Take this and wait until your number is called.” He places a ticket on top of the clipboard. I walk off, find a seat, fill out the form and wait.

Numbers count up over the bat behind window C. One person after another goes up and is taken care of by her. I wait and wait. I don't look at the time because I don't want it to make me impatient. Just before my number is called, the woman at Window C has a girlfriend that walks in and sits down behind Window B. I guess she missed her because she started talking more than working. The last person walked off from her window and the next number is not called, because the bean in this bitches head is too busy rattling around and her teeth swaying like barn doors to do her job. And of course, my number is next. Okay, I wait, and wait.

Finally my number is called. I go to the window, give her my clipboard and paperwork. She talks to her friend while slowly taking care of my business. I'm listening more to her babbling to her friend than getting my card activated. But I exercise patience, and do not think about jumping over the desk and smacking the shit out of her. To just do it once, I would get her attention. But no, I stand and wait until, eventually she walks off and returns with a registration card that LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE THE CARD THAT I WAS TOLD HAD EXPIRED.

What the fuck is this? I walk off, not saying thank you, and head to Window 3. The nurse that was there when I first arrived was not there. Another one was there on the phone. I stand in front of her, listening. They must have some important job related phone calls to constantly be on the fucking phone, right? WRONG! She is talking to the school principal that her son goes to, arguing about how he should not be suspended for defending himself. Blah, blah, blah. I'm just standing there again, waiting for quality service and getting the ass end of the stick. Finally she asks what is it I want. I have a 2:30 appointment to see Dr. Feelgood, I say. “He's at window 1.”

Gee thanks. Took you hours to give me that infor- mation. I can't understand why I have to wait ten minutes for 30 seconds of answer. I walk off realizing that this is the treatment that I'm going to get from the trained morons this low on the totem pole in the hospital. Minimum wage workers with minimum intelligence, put on this planet only to make you miserable. These are the fucks that go nuts when they are treated the same way at a store, or in a deli or restaurant. I wish her a heart attack where all the blood vessels in her nose explode and her father comes pouring out wearing a red suit.

I go to window 1 and talk to the nurse there. She takes my paperwork that I got from the middle window and tells me to take a seat. Five minutes later she calls me into a room and takes my vitals. Then she sends me back out to sit in the waiting room, and five minutes later the doctor calls me in and gives me an exam. It was mostly questions and answers than actual taking my clothes off and letting her feel the lump on my belly. Yes, she says, I have a hernia. Go back out into the waiting room and I will be called and given an appointment to come back for surgery.

I wait and I wait and I wait, and I realize that I'm out of the world of the college educated professionals, and back to the minimum wage workers again. Later, my name is called incorrectly and I walk up to where there is a desk and the woman there tells me that the room where you make the schedule is closed for the day. I can call tomorrow or come by tomorrow and schedule my appointment. Gee, thanks.

I leave and head home, grateful to be out of the Fucking Twilight Zone.

I pack onto a crowded bus once more and get home. How much do you want to bet that this phone number from this bitch won't even answer tomorrow?

Hobobob

Seminal Ejection Theory

My feet are swollen up like a pair of beach balls.

I don't know what the Hell for. I took a long walk on Sunday, and my legs were weak afterward. I made it all the way down to 69^th street on foot, and then walked back. It was cold and my hands froze, but I made the walk to shave some pounds off my ass. Well, actually, I did it to build muscle. The more muscle, the higher your metabolism. The higher your metabolism, the more you burn calories no matter what it is that you are doing. This really works, especially if you're a lard assed writer who does nothing but sit all day and type on the keyboard.

Yeah, I'm out of shape. Very much out of shape. My gut is beginning to hang over my belt, and I've developed a Hernia. Nice. All the way. I'm still trying to get a surgeon at the Metropolitan Hospital. I don't know how I feel about going under the knife; I'm feeling both good and bad about it. I was thinking about dying under anesthesia, but what the fuck? First I was afraid to, now I see that such a death would not be all that bad. It would be an exit and a long desired rest from this life. Too bad it will not be around Christmas. That would be a great Christmas present. Departure.

Christmas present. I know there are a lot of you out there that are wondering just what it is that I want for Christmas. What would a Hobo want to see underneath his Christmas tree this holiday season? Well, I'll let the fucked up ones among my readers know that it's NOT a butt plug. So keep your fucked up shit to yerselves. No, I'm a more spiritual person and I like spiritual, uplifting gifts. That works for me.

Other than a big serving of death without pain, I would like that all of the Skeksies in New York find a coat and a warm grate to sleep on this holiday season. No, I'm not fucking with the homeless. On the contrary, when I was homeless, THAT'S EXACTLY what I wanted when I was sleeping on the fucking streets. If you think I'm bullshitting you, go out and sleep on the sidewalk in front of your building for the evening and I bet, if you had the balls, the first thing you would take would be your heaviest coat. Why do you think there are so many coat drives at this time of the year? Because the homeless NEED COATS. Why do you homeless motherfuckers need coats EVERY YEAR? You probably complain.

The answer: because when the spring months arrive and the days get hotter and hotter, our winter storage facilities are closed. What are you? Dense or something? Do you think a homeless person would be bothered with carrying a heavy winter coat all summer long until the next winter? Well I know that there are some that do. There was this one guy that we nick-named COAT, and two women that we nick-named THE COAT SISTERS, who actually stayed in their heavy winter coats all summer long, no matter how hot it became. But these were a pair of sick retards. Normal homeless people drape their winter coats over fences and leave them on benches when they shed them for the summer. Its a shame to throw them out, and maybe, someone understanding will pick them up, wash them and return them to police stations where they can be used again next winter.

Now, for the warm sewer grate. I have to admit, I never slept over sewer grates. The Jamaica Boys did it in the Hotel, the promenade in front of the Public Library, but I went over there once and found a nest of waterbugs the size of an entire finger. There must have been millions of those fuckers right under the grating, seething like dark boiling water along the walls of the sewer. There was no way that I was going to lay down over that motherfucker. But a lot of homeless do. Just to let you know.

So that's not a bad Christmas gift to New York from me. It's very spiritual to give when someone gives to you. But you may ask: That sounds like a nice present, but what do you want personally? What do you want personally that applies to you alone? I can tell you. Jack Daniels served up with a steaming hot side of tits and ass. Did you have to guess? Just mail them to me by the quarts and the pound. Hey if I get enough, maybe I can drink up a painless departure for Christmas after all along with a big, fat erection. Ho ho ho!

Do ya hear me St. Nick? Bitches and booze!

Hobobob

Holding A Candle to Christmas

My fucking mouth has been shut tight.

It's been awhile. It's been a long time. I've been out of the market for writing. I have been writing up a storm, but only novels and not this damn blog. I love my blog. I love blogging, but as for the last fefw months, I have been silent. I have nothing to bitch about I believe. I am out of being angry.

I wondered when my angst would die, and maybe it has happened. Maybe not. I've been surviving so long on dust and ashes that the flavor of life is lost to me. Now I'm a gray lump, flavorless and damn near lifeless. I've felt better and this is not that time. It's the Christmas season and people are running around with loved ones and skipping along primrose paths with family. I don't have these things, and I'm not whining about it. Fuck all that wonderful Christmassy shit.

I'm not caring about yule logs, and ol' Saint Nick, or Rudolf the Red Nosed animal. I don't think that there are any Elves in the North Pole working on expensive electronics to give as gifts because we wall know that they come from Taiwan. I'm not reveling in the Christmas spirit because there is none in me. And neither am I 'Bah Humbug', Ebeneezer Scrooge. Fuck him too.

What am I saying? I'm an ingrate and a bastard and in the low estimation of things, I deserve to be alone in this time of pleasantness and peace. I'm not caring about what I'm doing because I don't intend to do too much. I'm just going to chill and possibly crank and complain, and maybe I'll do it right here on my blog.

I'm happy because I'm alive.

How about that?

Merry Christmas

Hobobob

Coming Home With a Vengeance

I know you thought I had died in a car accident, didn't you?

Or maybe you might have wished for it. Who knows. Maybe this is the blog that you love to hate. I don't know. How am I to know? All I know that is when I want to talk about something, I will sit down and write, and when I want to mope around, well, I'll do that shit too. Lately all I've been doing is moping around and sitting behind this computer, finding things to do. Here is what I've been up to.

Well, lucky me, I've decided to go take a look at St. Luke's Hospital in New York to see about my hernia operation. I don't know the first thing about finding a surgeon and Dr. A did not refer me to anyone to do it. So I decide to take the train uptown and head to the hospital. I get out of the train station to find myself smack dab in the middle of the sprawling campus of Columbia University. What the fuck? Not only that, I'll have to walk clean through the center of the campus grounds to get to the other side of town where the hospital is.

So what? It's an enormous campus, and in its center, it's like a-whole-nother city. The main plaza is this huge, wide open space, surrounded by buildings, some old, some new. Many with scores of granite steps leading up to their entrances. I walk like a zombie though this acreage of higher learning, noticing all of the young people milling about and going about their business and I am amazed at how cookie cutter similar they actually are. It's almost like a campus filled with clones. White, young, thin, average dressed. There seemed to be nothing else around. No Blacks, Asians, Latinos. Maybe I was missing them all. Maybe this wasn't some strange island paradise for Whites at the edge of Harlem.

And another thing. I was getting an erection! Yeah, a full-fledged hard on just looking at the teenage girls walking about. There were just so many of them my brain had reached overloaded proportions. I was being inundated with young, fresh pussy to such an extent that I was overheating. Normally, young girls do nothing for me. I'd rather go home and jerk off to MILF porn, but today, surprisingly I was aroused. What the fuck is that about?

I march on, heading clear through the Campus of Clones and out the other side, finding St. Luke's Hospital and marveling at the huge number of buildings that made up this place. They had just as many buildings as the college. I was amazed as I walked into reception and met up, not with a nurse, but a security guard who lead me to admissions. Logical place. Once there I got on another line. This time, this person told me to go across the street to the clinic to find a doctor. No problem. I head across the street and up to the second floor as directed, finding nothing. A woman sees me standing there like an idiot and asks me where do I want to go. The clinic, I say to her. “Which one?” She replies. What the fuck? How should I know. I hunch my shoulders. Any one, all of 'em, I say. She points off and I follow. Her direction leads me to the eye clinic.

Not very fucking helpful. But it did bring me to a cross roads. An intersecting corridor that had markers on the wall stating the directions to the various clinics nearby. I followed the one that said Specialties, or something like that. When I go there it was divided down to even more health problems between two clinics. I chose one. The likeliest one, but I couldn't tell for sure. Inside, to my horror, the place is packed. I mean jammed up. I am not happy. I march on into the clinic and find the front desk and ask the woman there if I can see a doctor for a hernia operation. “Do you have an appointment?” she asks. No, I reply. “Do you have a doctor here?” No. “Do you know what clinic you are supposed to go to?” No. “Well do you have a referral from your family physician?” No. “Well, you are going to need a referral or we will not be able to help you.”

What? I am flabber- gasted. How in the Hell are you supposed to get medical treatment if you don't have a family physician? Like when I was homeless and wandering the streets. I went to Bellevue Hospital and was admitted in without a problem back in the day, when I was homeless and wandered in off the streets. Here you need to have a referral. What the fuck is that about? I walk off. I am not pleased with St. Luke's hospital. It is old looking, and creepy. I just don't feel right being cut open like a honeydew melon here. I wonder what I am going to do. Should I head over to the Metropolitan hospital, where I've been before for my heart issue, or should I stay with St. Luke's Hospital get gored there?

What the fuck. I head out and back to the Campus of Clones to the train, and to the overabundance of young pussy, feeling my cock uncoil in my pants and a lift in my step. I'm becoming a dirty old man, and for some reason, it doesn't feel too bad.

Then I head home to jerk off to MILF porn.

Hobobob

Staring Upon a Darker Vista

 And then I was at a loss for words.

I've been through the wringer these past few months, years, decade and had the shit beat out of me, only to find that things can get worse. Yeah, I'm suffering from catastrophizing, but that is not without reason. This is not without weight. Because the minute I take my lemon sour stare off my life, the moment that I find reason to feel better, to feel good, I find myself kicked in the ass for being so gleeful. Life is not meant to be enjoyed, it's meant to be suffered until it's done.

And when it's done, then what happens? You fall into the black. There is nothing more and you wince at this thought because, damnit, you WANT there to be more to life. You want to have a glorious finish where you put on white robes and ascend into a magical world were all of your questions are answered. But the truth is, it's all bullshit. There are no answers. You die and all is finished. You will not find anything in death, there is no afterlife, you don't wander the world trying to communicate with the living, you don't go to a lofty place. You don't do anything but lay in the dust and call it quits. Cockroaches don't worry about communicating with other cockroaches. Pigs don't mourn the frying of bacon. Chicken don't fret over buffalo wings. And humans need not care about death.

Why is it that I'm thinking about this right now? Well, one day recently, just before going to see my therapist and hearing more about my low self-esteem and catas- trophizing, I am taking a shower and find an odd lump on my distended stomach. My stomach is already hanging over my belt for god's sake, and yet, here I am, with a lump on it. I push at it and it goes away, but later, I check under my shirt and there it is, bulging out.

I go through the week, working my way though the daily deal, until I see Dr. A and lift my shirt and show him my Manitou. He tells me to jump up on his table, pokes and prods me, and with great skill he takes a sonogram and there you have it, I have a hernia. I have a lump in my stomach because my intestines are trying to pour though a hole in my belly. What the fuck? Once again, you deal with the shit that is shoveled at you. I'm standing again, and looking at the lump and there I feel a level of depression. I don't want to deal with it.

Why? Because the knife seems to be the only recourse for the time being. Surgery, where they open me up and put a mesh where the hole in my stomach is. Surgery, where they put you under and everyone prays that they can wake you up again. Everyone worries that your eyes will not open. Everyone bows their heads when you don't wake up. What the fuck do I want to be put under for? People die of simple surgeries every day, and I am going to sign up for it. That's madness, right? That means I am crazy and out of my fucking mind. That's what that means.

But there are no other options. I can't just leave it alone and it goes away. It only gets wider and wider with every move I make, until enough of my intestines pour out through the hole and its very weight causes the edges of the hole to choke a section of the innards. That section dies, and as I was told, when it dies, I die. If not, there will be enormous complications, where my stomach will be turned into a salad bowl and my fat will be turned into bone...that's if I wake up from the operation.

What the fuck, I say! It's time for me to meet the mud. The dirt nap. I'm not going to meet my maker, because he doesn't appreciate unscheduled visits. And death is an unscheduled visit. I don't want to not wake up on the operating room table. I do not want to catastrophize about it. But that's what I do, and picking the wrong end of the barrel is what I do best.

If there is an afterlife ....I'll let you know.

Hobobob