new home…a room…bed…some metal rod to hang clothes on…small fridge for beer an’ coffee…radio plays Miles…all that is needed…

bathroom down the hall is untidy…hasn’t been cleaned for sometime…toothpaste build-up in a sink…hair clogged drain…

at 50 this is what it comes to…a life of poverty…life of an artist…to sit in this chair and write of life’s lows woes riches bitches snitches…loves that got away…fleeting moments…fleeting moments…

an’ Dostoyevsky sits in the corner…so does Miller…what is suffering…just another lifestyle…another lifestyle…

sirens go-off outside…gunshots down back alleys…windowshades cast shadows in the evening’s heat…while dreams of you dance before me to borrowed time…123…123…123…

what did the first half of life’s pageant bring…drunken nights…barroom fights…two ex-wives…and lovers by the score…

now i sit alone and write…now i sit alone and write…

i sit alone and write….