"If love is blind I guess I'll buy myself a cane....."

Been riddled with insomnia all week. I shower, I lay down, deluged by thoughts, neon embryonic vignettes wafting and hovering above my head like it is always the fourth of July and my scalp is Ellis Island. I ferry back and forth between the kitchen chugging shots of Britta water. I check on Uncle Mike lying in front of a boxed whizz of static blue. I channel surf, drooling over infomercials featuring spandex-clad lasses inserting their limbs in contorted yogi positions while smiling. I sweat. I shower again. I go on long nocturnal jaunts and smoke cigars. I got called over by a bunch of denim-skirted sirens last night playing EDWARD 40hands. They had two forties of king-Cobra Malt cheap liquer that looks like stale Clysdale piss ducktaped around each palm. I continue to walk. My ex-girlfriend teaches art and lives on Moss Avenue. We didn't date long and we still have a mutual respect for each other. I get inspired when I see her up, at three in the morning, through the sallow dim-lit square of her apartment watching her splatter paint on the canvas... Last night I found my novel BOOK OF MUSES (BLOCK OF MESSES) and went through it. It's sloppy and large. Parts of it are pretty steamy that I'd get kicked out of the sauna if I'd read it in public.