When I was young I was depressed all the time. But suicide no longer seemed a possibility in my life. At my age there was very little left to kill. It was good to be old, no matter what they said. It was reasonable that a man had to be at least 50 years old before he could write with anything like clarity.
I was settled into nothingness; a kind of non-being, and I accepted it. It didn’t make for an interesting person. I didn’t want to be interesting, it was too hard. What I really wanted was only a soft, hazy space to live in, and to be left alone.
People empty me. I have to get away to refill.
My ambition is handicapped by laziness.
when you left
you took almost
I kneel in the nights
that will not let me be
The wisdom to quit is all we have left.
That moment - to this …
may be years in the way they measure,
but it’s only one sentence back in my mind -
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails.
I pass the hotel at 8
and at 5; there are cats in the alleys
and bottles and bums,
and I look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when it stops.
I still have a little whiskey left and therefore a chance.
She’s always high,
What you do is take whatever luck comes your way and pretend
you know more than you ever will.