premade whiskey and cokes.

It's almost christmas and almost a new year and what I am doing here with everything, everyone and all this nonsense going on around me. These men and these words and their eyes and their speech. I'm waiting around to think of what song to play in my car on the way home to go to sleep in my bed while I'm half intoxicated. I sat at my table the other night with my typewriter and the only sentence that was typed out was some bullshit line about winter and November and the heat warming up in my blood and the warm rush flowing throughout my sex organs. Turning on, turning you on, turn on the fan, it's Florida and it's hot here in December. Records and beats and holidaze and truth and power. Writing poems about..about my life? What have I turned into? Having dreams of writing in a one roomed apartment in New York, in the chelsea hotel, the same room that Dear L. Cohen laid his sweet head, giving head- to men, men who have meant more to me then my own father. The father who danced with me to the Beatles in our kitchen, the man who taught me to feel the music with my body and soul and just mooove with it- the man who I search for in older men with good jobs and good personalities and a certain "thing" about them. Someone who listens to good music, at least. The older men. The smart ones, the ones who have their shit together. Let me take all your records home and lay them out on my floor while I drink vodka and think of other ways to end my life, and while this is all going on, your records are sending me off to my death. my death bed, with my catholic saint candles and my love letters to all of you. You. You. The dedication to the book has been written. Who do I leave the last page to though? These men still litter my notebooks. my moleskins. The black ones that have your name written in them and that end in a year. a different notebook for a different lover. different lover for a different year. creative lying to become a better writer. writing to become a better liar. falling for the wrong kind of gentle winds. these men, these men, these leonard cohens of the world, where are you and why havent you found me lying on my floor with my catholic saint candles and my records flung around the living room waiting for you? no, maybe for my self.