I sat in a Chinese restaurant and believed I was losing my sanity. Three a.m., steam rising. Hazy green tea leaves. My lonesome spirit debating this lost soul. Why am I the blogger I am? The darkness came late. Human flotsam squandered on a tiled floor. They walked from the night cold, these broken men: the bruised, the drugged, the desperate screams of DTs and spider walls. Ziggy played on the radio like an old Underwood. The ghost of Bukowski, the miasma of bad spirits on Szechuan riders. An old whore's fishnet stocking I imagined against my poetic legs. The waiters, tough like shark skin soup, barked in clipped East Asian tones. Time to go. Time to find a hardness of life in days past.
I made it to the One Lucky, the red neon sign crying in wisps of gaseous tears. The bar tender named 'Beer Mugs' Moran welcomed me.
"Long time no see. Whaddya have, Tortelli?"
"The usual," I replied. "A green pen, a yellow pad, and a tall glass of ginger-ale. Extra ice."
"Manny's been asking about you." Beer Mugs added.
"Yeah, sure. Tell him I'm home."
LIFE OF A POET - JOHN BUCHANAN
6 hours ago