A homeless writing set adrift essentially in the middle of the city (the internet) looking like a grizzled old man with an insect ridden beard, dirty clothes and smells like cabbage. This is practice, a light shadow boxing in a dirty alleyway just around the corner from the shabby homeless guy, who is adrift on a spectacular cruise with Captain Rotgut Wine. I practice in this filthy alleyway to get the feel for the craft, to bob and weave my way through a series of drills everyday. Not unlike the working here in a war zone, watching the skies for the tell tale sign of a rocket getting shot on base, or the flinching feeling one gets when there is a big Boom close by. The way I still flinch when I hear a truck backfire back here in the states; hitting the floor of the restaurant to the stares of the other patrons, opposite an empty seat which used to be occupied by my spouse, only now is dead air. So I leave the restaurant, walking back to my little apartment in the city, past the bum in the alleyway, the shadow boxer and finally past the disinterested, tattooed hooker, who always seems to be here and not working, as if she is always waiting on me to walk by, "you want a date, lover?" Wiggling her rear suggestively in her shorts, her long raven hair is teased up in a fancy do on top of her head as if she was recently at an embassy dinner, surrounded by dignitaries, only now just the hair remains, as she is within the orbit of junkies, drunks and dressed in shorts, high heels and a white rabbit fur jacket that compliments her sapphire green eyes and generous mouth.
I incline my head towards my shabby little apartment; she is my muse, a whore with a heart of a lion, within a hot body, soon to be full of sweat, moans and finally as she stands there naked in my room, lit by the neon signs from the streets outside, which casts a reddish glow on her skin, giving her a slightly demonic look. I watch her from the bed within that hateful neon moonlight as she counts the money from the vodka-scented dresser. She turns to me and smiles, flashing rows of white pearly teeth and she is holding a straight razor. I nod slightly as she eases over with that lovely skin suit and her blade. she pauses deliciously above me and then cuts as the red water flows out of me and down to the floor in rivulets of letters and sentences.
She is why I practice, that scurvy, perfume scented whore; she is the surgeon now. I am just a lousy pen on a liquor stained dresser, lying beside a bloody scalpel within a smell of cheap perfume, and an empty apartment.