Dawn...a poem

I wouldn't normally do this. However, since the poem was written in Key West about a writer in Key West(me), I thought it might be used as an intermission between columns. Don't worry, I will be back to my debauched ways just as soon as I finish this bottle of Conch Republic rum...

the wind blows cool blues across his skin. the man is sitting awash
in blue neon night. the tiki bar is a nice place to write
but right now, he concerns himself with two cigarettes
and the construction of a huge white russian.
the bartender is an imaginary former miss texas
in orange hot pants named
dawn
born with the tattoo
IM NOT YOUR FUCKING BABY
emblazoned in confederate font across the small
of her back
the man had decided he would giver a go
if she were real, that is....
he sits awash in blue neon as the wind blows
cool black night blues across his skin
his head abuzz with vodka
delbert mclinton
and the argument with sam
he was too controlling she cried
which was probably true so here he sits
controlling nothing
but his own level of intoxication
zen-like in his ability to just sit
and let the world do its thing around him
he bathes in blues buzzing
with dawn pretending to mix white russians
controlling nothing and writing the same
just letting the world do its thing
and writing no stories
about nobody people
in nowhere towns
doing nothing
and wishing the blues werent so real tonight
basking awash in blue neon night blues he curses
no one
smoking with no one
but the white russian
controlling nothing but the nowhere
people he creates and even then
they are obstinate at best
he wishes he were stronger
he wishes the drink was stronger
he wishes the words were stronger
and that dawn was real.