Enter the crash. I'm still feeding my son but I don't know how long my body will last. My days off are filled with sleep and naps and numbness. I feel my creativity seeping into the sand. I've started three novels finished none.
Weird things keep me going. Mike Ditka with his no bullshit attitude. Anthony Munoz with his broken warped pinkie.
I spend hours a week punching bags and doing knuckle down push-ups. It's as if I'm daring my body to grit on through.
I limp gimpy through my days as I try to make the best of my fallback career. I didn't train for this race. I gave it all in the marathon of my five year no sleep gigging it. I beat my body with the fists of my ambition.
And here I am serving up Manhattan's and plates of snake river trout to retirees.
The right hipbone and left shoulder are going-going-gone. And the jaw-don't ask. The feet are desperate and falling down at the arches.
The medicine is Knarly Head pinot gris and Luksusowa potato vodka. That plus Bicycle Pinot Noir. I gullet down bottles fish style like the Pelican's off Olde Naples Pier.
Still. In those moments of still I dream my dreams. I write poetic fragments. I noodle myself into a meal full of belly.
