working out in Hades

holy Christ, I’m on fire and now it’s happening and
as I always told that whore when we lived on Beacon street
starving and drinking–
I always told her that I had a bit of luck and strangeness
going–
in fact, when I got drunk enough I’d pace the floor in my
dirty torn shorts and ripped undershirt
I’d say more in desperation than belief: “I’m a fucking
genius and nobody knows it but
me!”

I thought this was rather funny but she said, “Man, you’re
full of shit, pour us another drink!”
she was crazy and now and then an empty bottle would come
flying toward my head.
she
missed most of the time
but
when she bounced one off my skull I ignored it, poured another
drink,–
after all, if you’re immortal, it doesn’t
matter.
besides–she had one of the finest pair of legs I ever
saw
in those high   heels–twisting those spiked
ankles–and there were those great knees   flashing   in the
smokey drunken light.
:   “You’re so full of shit,
man!”

she helped me through some of the worst parts–if she were
here now we’d both laugh our god damned asses
off.
knowing   it was all true, and yet
not.

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