Fucking Crazy Shit

I have strange dreams.

I dream that I'm fucking the brains out of this woman and just before I bust a helluvah load, I wake up. Whoa...I haven't had one of those in ages, and I just averted a mess in my sheets. Lucky me...huh? I fall back into bed. It's six in the morning, and there's no need to hop up and run. I fall back to sleep until ten. No strange dreams this time. This one is about money. Lots of money. Not cash...I made that differentiation before.

I get out of bed, work the cramps out of my joints. I don't exercise. I make coffee and get online. Today is my therapy with Dr. L. I'm going to have a daisy of a time telling her about the vodka and wine yesterday. This is going to hurt, because she'll probably have to inform WECARE.... oh...what am I thinking. SHE CAN'T DISCUSS SPECIFICS WITH ANYONE. I forgot about that. Only unless she recommends that I be transferred to another therapy will I be transferred. But then again, I can't tell anything that's going on in her mind. She is monolithic in her approach. She could just be a statue in the room, posed in a listening position and I come to talk to it. There are no flashes of her thinking in our conversations, just mine. Even the conclusions are mine, she makes none. Dr. L. is good, that's why I don't care to withhold anything from her. IF she is to benefit me...if my coming here week after week is to mean anything...I need to come straight with her.

That's her...and then there's the Green Pavilion this evening. I have to travel all the way into Brooklyn this evening for my Feature at the Green Pavilion. A nice restaurant with a reception hall in the back. I and another poet are the men of the evening tonight, reading our work aloud before a room of maybe ten or twenty poets. Sometimes thirty, like at the SHOUT OUT. It's stressful, especially to me. I hate being before people, but it's a necessary evil. I like to read my work, but if I could do it in a recording, or behind a screen....

What I do is a little trick that works for me. I narrow down my world to the paper directly before my eyes. I shut out everything around me. All the eyes, all of the faces, all of the people. Everything. I close down my world and become one with the paperwork. Then I can deliver the work. Now, my problem is that I'll fret before getting there. I'll catastrophize for hours in the day before I get there and get this over with. Because I'm dreaming of a worst case scenario all the time, like that I'm going commando there, and that my fly will be open and my johnson lolling out while I read. Which in a way is giving me an erection while I'm writing about it...heh. Or that I'll fart loudly by mistake. Or maybe the audience will not find me enjoyable in the least and set upon me with their butter knives and forks, and proceed to mutilate me beyond all human recognition.

These things can happen. But rather, I've actually learned to dwell on nothing now. Free my mind of the non-sense by getting it involved in other things. Then, get there, and get it over with. No matter what happens. And what usually happens? It turns out better than I expected. So, I'm not going to catastrophize and ride the wave all the way there, go through with it, and bring my ass back home. Simple.

So now, I'm just home, sweating out the appearance of the Man. Yeah, that's right. The Exter- minator Man who is coming regardless of if I let him in or not. For personal reasons, such as my piss bottles, I don't want anyone in my room without me being here. They are coming any way per a note, reading: "If you will not be available on the above date and time, we ask that you advise the building staff, as we will attempt to access all rooms on the eighth and ninth floor even if the tenant is not present." Well, then, I'll stay here until they arrive. That's if they arrive before two O'clock. At two I have to run to my therapy. That would be fucked up.

Well, lots of things are fucked up in this life kids. I think of all the things that are happening outside... outside of being poor and without means. Shit affects us worse than most. But most are affected. Such as this: "M.T.A. Board Votes to Raise Fares and Cut Service Sharply. Board members called the measures a disaster for commuters in the New York area but said they could no longer wait for lawmakers in Albany to rescue them."

Rescue them. You notice, now that money is beginning to flow from the Feds, everyone is having an emergency? Companies and organ- izations are either suddenly on the verge of bankruptcy, or need rescue. What kind of shit is this. The Feds should just start to let these companies fail, and these organizations, like the MTA, should be sued. Simple as that. And the proceeds from the lawsuit should then be given back to the MTA for them to keep the rates from rising and services cut. This is all just grand posturing to get their hands on the money. That's what everyone wants, to get their hands on the money. Why? So they can get back to fat cat spending.

Well, that's one reason why I like fucking in my sleep. It's a great diversion from not fucking and staying awake. The world outside of dream land is getting to become pretty greedy. The moment that the Feds started to bail out companies with money, is the moment everybody has gone nuts. I should write a proposal for the state to fund poetry in New York. That's what I should do. And see if we can get some of that cash too. Be greedy.

Well, it's just a thought, although it doesn't beat fucking in my sleep. Well maybe it does. Cleaning messy sheets are no fun.

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