Boxing.
There is a grace- fulness in boxing, it's almost like dancing, the only difference between it and ballet is that someone is getting the fucking shit beat out of them. It's almost magical, with a five pound glove being slung around like a party favor, searching to connect with a jaw or a gut with much force.
Well, this is the same thing that is going to happen to WECARE. I'm going to connect so hard with a five pound glove that it will be unlawful in sixteen states. But I'm going to give WECARE a chance, a magic number before we have our collision. Four weeks. After four weeks all bets are off. Then I'm going to connect their jaw with my five pound glove.
WECARE can inflict a great deal of havoc to my life with the flick of a switch. They can cancel their aid and benefits that they provide to me at any moment. Foremost is medical and pharmacy benefits. Whooosh, that shit is going out of the window. But now you'll see the power that Social Services wields over the minions. This is where you are going the minute you lose your job and benefits, right under their thumb. I'm going to see just how far their so call benefits reach. Does it even reach to that of my room? Sugar Plum assured me that it didn't, but she could be wrong. Very wrong.
I've made an ugly decision. If these motherfuckers wrap me up with a job in the Parks Department I'm not going, and when they hang my medical benefits over my head I'm going to tell them to lick my asshole clean. Further, you think that I'm going say that to a minion don't you? No. I'm going to ask to see their supervisor and then their supervisor's supervisor and I'm going to tell that guy to lick out my asshole.
Ha ha ha ha ha!!! I can't wait! I'm going to really burn down my bridge!! I want my freedom, not a cage. Freedom comes at a cost, but they don't charge me. Others do. That's really awkward thinking Hobobob. I'm an awkward person. A normal person would not have been living on the streets for two years and another in a homeless shelter.
WECARE is not a problem, they are an obstacle. I am a fraud, now that's a problem. I am a fraud...I am not who or what I am posing to be. I was once a Beat Poet, a true Beat Poet the likes of Ginsberg, Burroughs, and Kerouac. The reason that they were called beat poets was because it came from the word Beatnik, or someone 'beaten' down by society. A homeless person with no income, nothing but their writing.
I had and do consider myself a beat poet, but I no longer meet the definition. It would mean another fall from the social ladder but I think that my brother might be right about what the world wants to hear, the story of two men battling society and convention to write poetry. It seems, or even more accurately, feels like I'm bowing out of this fight. I'm fleeing the five pound glove.
But I've spent enough time on the streets, I've paid my dues. Who says that everything changes in three years? Who says that my adventure here is not as valid as others. So what, I'm no longer a beat poet. So what I'm out of 'the life', does that make me any less of a poet? That life was a bitch. It was kicking my ass. Living in Penn Station was an experience that I wouldn't suggest to anyone if you're curious about 'the life'.
I'm tired now. I'm taking the exit stage left.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2009/06/circumference-of-true-poet.html
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