Number Eight

I want a beer with Bukowski,
and dose with Uncle Bill,
to ride along drunk with Jack,
just for a thrill.
I want to kiss Allen G.,
just to make him cry and then run,
tell all the boys- but the beats have
passed me by.
I had my turn on the bus,
and skipped and ran away,
oh I had my rainbow fun,
easy back in the day.
This morning I am drunk with words
and I want to hold the poets hand
but I am dizzy with the muse upon my head
and don't think I can stand.
I want an old hotel room on a lost highway
with snapping neon all pink and blue
I want cigarettes and rum
and old sheets stained with love,
and you.