Tonk, Honkey Tonk that is..

when i awoke, arm numb, needles running, from the place where she rested her head. i slowly hugged and rolled her so i could get up without disruption. i put some Lee Morgan on the player and walked out onto the balcony, the sun was starting to warm up and the concrete was still cold in the spots where the shade remained, my feet touched these spots and sent a nice refreshing chill through my blood. i was in the process of lighting my first cigarette of the day when the lizard slowly crawled across my feet. i jumped with surprise at the amount of thing ingested the night before. i poked my head through the curtain and starred down at this young frail body lying in my bed, wrapped like a mummy in a blanket, lips soft. where did we come from and how did we even make it home? i looked out across the street and saw my car parked there, with one tire on the sidewalk, and the other tire flat, my poor car propped up on there, like a handicapped prisoner. i didn't feel so well, there was a burning in my stomach, was it from the guilt? or was it the drinks? maybe a combination of both. my lips were dry and crusty and i had some buildup right around the eyes. i sat on the balcony for a very long time, with a cigarette in one hand, i thought about going inside and putting some shorts on, but i liked the way the breeze felt and the sun felt when one was naked. i could feel the ringing in my ears and i watched as the neighbor rolled out his lawnmower and began to get to work. i saw him as he took a swig from his lemonade, with his pastel shirt and casual slacks, with his fisherman hat, and his stupid sunglasses. that cocky smile creeping across his face and his stupid beady little eyes. he had the life, tha bastard, and i hate to be an ass about it, but he has his picket fence, his hot wife, and his career as an urban developer. what was i doing? fucking living! while he had to follow the same routine i could make my own up as it went. i had nothing to prove so i could just as easily be here or there, but know exactly where i am coming from. the bastard probably cries himself to sleep at night. i walked around with a cup of coffee for awhile and my hat on, mumbling to myself the poem about staying gold and the two roads that diverge in the woods; i washed my face and hands, drank down the rest of my coffee and sat at the typewriter. i switched it over to Herbie Hancock and waited for it. the feeling was there, and i sat there, arms suspended in the air, perfectly inline over the keys, waiting for it to hit me. when it finally did, i burst into it with such fury, that when i was done, i was sweating.