writing

the writing fool

woke up way too goddamn early
this morning. had way too many
bourbons last night. I make
some coffee but it tastes like
something a north dakota pipeline
is pumping up, dump it down the
drain. heat up a

frying pan, throw three tortillas
down, flip em when they bubble
up. crack a few eggs and plop them
in. forgot oil, so the eggs are
sticking. portion out the
eggs on a each tortilla. grab
some guacamole, spoon some
on each then a dousing of hot
sauce. sit in my tan leather
desk chair and eat like it is
be my last meal. think about

last night. had plans to tour
the bars down the street but as
I made it to the tracks, a union
pacific was crawling by. then
it just stopped. turned back and
went to the bar just across the
alley from my place. I’m already
a few neats in, feeling more kerouac
on buckley drunk then kerouac on
the road drunk. was not in

the best of shape and I’m pretty
sure I made a fool of myself when
I tried to slur flirt with two pretty
tattooed blondes that sat next to me. I
don’t think I can show my face in
there for at least a couple of

weeks. fool. washed my dish and
frying pan then grabbed my black
notebook to see what foolish
things I wrote during my liver’s
final stand- it was sloppy, illegible
and gibberish. what a waste. the

writing fool heads back to bed, the
only place where he can’t screw it
all up.

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there’s a light hum when you live alone

never been just self in rent. always
a girl or friends. noise always. I
now feel unburdened to do what was
always odd or moody; drink, write and
listen to jazz. no one hovering with
questions. no one to answer to or
make
plans
with. a light hum massages my drums,
tells me to go on with deep
thought, go on with filling your
glass. go on with sitting in your
truth. go on mourning the chaos
this life seems to be. go on with
getting on that creative tip, I
won’t judge you. go on with
eating cereal drunk from tupperware
at three in morn. go on with
your expression. go on, get to
that
trail- looping with burst and bloom.

creamsicle

a waitress tapped me on the shoulder and
handed me a business card with a hand
written number. “it’s from the girl behind
us.” I look over, there are a few. “which one?”
“the blonde.” she is spotlight. I was gettin

on good with my honey colored neat and
words flowin in my crimson notebook but
everything screeched to halt. her high cheek
bones
lifted with a smile. I nodded to her and
raised my glass. I enjoy a

forward woman. a rare item that
should be collected in a dusty museum and
all the men in town head down to see, taking
pictures in disbelief. my eyes still on
her and that airy creamsicle top she has
on. my goodness, this beauty has

no idea what frustration and heartbreak
she has
comin. poor girl. pocket her
card, put notebook in back of pants, grab
drink

and head on over for dessert.