I don’t know about you but

when I had rats in my room there were
no mice
and when I had mice there were no
and no matter where I lived
(except in one place)
all the rooms seemed to have
working people in them
and they were very quiet.
too often I was the only madman
in there,
behind in my rent,
sucking on cheap wine,
wondering how I got that way.
I figured it was my father’s
it sure as hell couldn’t be mine.
those landladies terrorized me,
bumping their vacuum cleaners
against my door as I lay sweating
on my hangover bed.
once in a while I’d get out and
luck onto a bit of
and then it was back to the room,
sucking on the wine night and
day, the shades down,
hiding out like some mole
at times I would make the
neighborhood bar
and sometimes this meant

and it was always better with
a woman,
you could share your disgust with
the universe with
and when there wasn’t any food
and little hope
you could make love again and
again, you had nothing but
best, of course, was really getting
drunk and then you could pace
the floor, smoking, strutting,
telling her what a tough guy you
were, what a great
but those ladies were hardly
even when they declared their
love for you,
you’d often come back to find
them gone and your little
money gone
and then it was either
go to some bar, find her,
terrorize her and everybody
in the bar,
or just forget it,
which you seldom

you planned suicides in those
tried a few, didn’t make

still, all in all, for all the fear
and madness and not
I loved those rooms, the
door closed, myself on the
bed looking at the ceiling,
letting the hours and the days
and the weeks roll
I memorized everything,
the knobs on the dresser,
the cracks in the mirror,
the dirty bathroom floor,
the empty bottles,
and things like a week old
newspaper laying on the
floor, you read the same
headline everyday,
and sure, it was my father’s
fault, he had told me that
I would be a bum
and I waited in those rooms
and I waited in those
I was a man of extreme
and I don’t know about
but I think it was one of the
best times of my