Chinaski

When the poetry knocks, you don't ignore it, she says. Write it now and get to the work later. 

I spend another lone, steamy January night with my foot burning on the radiator, wondering what the point of all this inertia could possibly be in a life that will be over so soon, but then Bukowski wanders into my conscious stream and takes a piss in the water, what can I do but stop for a chat. They say the snow is coming but Hank only ever lived in Los Angeles, he doesn't care about weather reports. The empty apartment across the streets still has the lights on. The empty apartment on 6th street still has my name on it, but I have yet to do anything about it. 

My skin still has your name on it but you have yet to do anything about it.

My days and nights twist themselves around the second I let them out of my sight. I wake late in the mornings and paint on a fresh coat of lipstick as the video call rings, feign consciousness before it actually catches up, there is no good way to tell them my ideal hours are after everyone is asleep. He moves into an airstream near the beach and you wonder what you really are doing with your Pandemic January. Hank says it's all nonsense, but you are not yet ready to give up on magic twilight glimmers. It is a new year, after all, no matter how hard it tries to emulate the last. 

You go to bed at last. Dream strange dreams of easier days. 

Wonder if it will all make sense in the morning.