It is just a few minutes after the
witching hour, and I'm on my third
night of an insomnia spell. Four
in the morning seems to be when I
finally give up the ghost and fall
into a coma, so I expect I have a
while to kill before the Sandman
stops by for a drink...

I'm reading Bukowski again. He
makes me laugh when I drink. He
makes me laugh when I don't drink,
and I know that if I had had the
chance to meet the bastard I would
have had a helluva good time trying
NOT to get hammered by him in some
sleezy flophouse...

Male poets have it made. Who else
could look like Charles Bukowski,
live like Charles Bukowski, and
still get laid?? Anyway, I digress...

I usually read Bukowski when I am
in the painful throes of Writer's
Block, which I've also been suffering
along with insomnia. A friend
suggested that maybe lack of sleep
has something to do with my lack of
creativity, and he's right - I am
numb from my shoulders up, but like
Bukowski, I'm not going down without
a fight...

okay...that was good. Fifteen straight
minutes of writing.


To be continued