Jim Morrison woke, with the help of the light beside his bed at three in the afternoon.
Short days, he'd been up writing poetry, drinking some nice simple  low level French red,
now that he wasn't doing acid anymore.  No more the Lizard King, no more the drinker of hard stuff,
Fuck that, thought Jim Morrison, that was all bad shit,
only a young idiot would do.  L.A.
and still when he woke up sometimes, even while behaving,
something about the decreased ability to breath through his nose,
an unready attempt at mouth wash, or a pill,
and then Jim is starting the day with some attempt of the body
to vomit.  And so he puked a bit, in the sink, after peeing,
but not really puking.  It was still puking,
but I don't know, just an attempt at morning balance,
like taking a shit.  Just that, fortunately, it hardly happened everyday.
Okay, he said to himself.
The lamb chops in the fridge he'd overcooked, the green tea was good,
touch up the beard underneath the neck, in the shower, and then, more or less,
ready to get on the bike, finding some gluten free bread, placing it into
a small cubicle Rubbermaid.  Left one of those plastic sleeves of sliced turkey in the cooler.
Vitamins, Jim Morrison said, to himself.
Christmastime now.  How about that.
Now just get to work, and find out how they were going to fuck with you that night.
I am the Lizard King.
I can do anything.