The Whiskey coke messed up my stomach.

Numbs the head. Slips me, easily into daydream, for much longer periods of time. In alcoholic morning after haze, I dazed in the library, heart vaguely stirring as it studied the young student sitting at the café, long legs crossed. She was good bedroom material but with too young a mind to engage the intellectual perversity that wrecked mine. Sinful cheap thoughts for a not simple cheap man.

I yawned.

Stretched in the brown black armchair trying to read because that's what writers do. Read a lot. I'm fucking lazy though, takes effort to dig out the energy to go through even a short story. What more write one? I was too stoned to beat myself up over it, so I borrowed 'the writing life' and retired home. The writers' life. The writers' room. The table is cluttered, red hangar, scissors, plastic chocolate box cover used for semi-rational water healing rituals, concert ticket stub (Motley Crue), CAMERAMAN tag on a lanyard for a pseudo porn shoot, ipod with no headphones, fortune telling book, empty water bottles, coins, wires, unwrapped Pete Townstead cassette tape, manuscripts. Bird chirping outside (where there's only crickets in the night) unattached keyboard. The writers life. Tissue on the floor, pajamas crimpled, topsy turvy shoes. No wonder the page looks like a mess. No wonder the disjointedness, the havoc that drowns gems of truth. The distortions on a page. Empty drink can calling out for a fulfilling life, a writer's life, to fuel a fucked up life with meaning. But really, it isn't all messed up like the room. It's a phase, they call it, I call it, doesn't matter. They and I am the same thing. They just want to get heard more inside here, to get hurt more just because it feeds the poet well.

High protein pain. Good growth.

I sit on the bed in my underwear, crucifix heavy hung on my neck as if it would sink me if I fell into the waters of creation. Jesus will be my editor. Outside dogs start to bark and howl, scaring the birds. I contemplate the coming of night, of other desecrated rituals for contacting the muse. Maybe a manuscript burning act will release the trapped inspirer, but burning the books is an old, tried and tired method. Like burning hell money for the dead, the spirits in the netherworld will get stories, half novels, and abandoned poems. They will weep without knowing the end, just as they can't seem to see an end to their otherworld existence. Then they will haunt me in the night, with the crickets, making me want to drown in drink, and then waking up again the next morn, with my stomach fucked up on whiskey coke.