Waking up to Charlie Parker on WKCR. Heating up cold coffee in a microwave. Marmalade spread on a stale piece of bread.

Above is a shelf of books; Ulysses,  Moby Dick, On The Road, Tropic of Cancer and Capricorn, The Air-conditioned Nightmare, with some Joan Didion leaning on her side. I’ve read all of these twenty times and then some. Torn pages, yellowing covers, bent and shuffled like a deck of cards, too far gone for a used book store to take. Wishing I had some money, honey.

There is quiet in the morning. The screaming and yelling from last night has stopped. There is no change on the nightstand. Rent’s been paid. Let’s see what Ishmael is up to. Moby Dick; it’s not about a fish.

I read under lamplight. Morning sun rises over the Bronx. My stomach growls. Coffee tastes like diseased piss and mold discovered on my bread. How desperate am I? Throw the piece of wheat out the window for the pigeons down below.

Now Joe Henderson is blowing magic. I keep it turned down, wondering what Ishmael’s tattoos look like. The hunger presses on.

Nothing under the bed. Not a dollar nor a penny. Empty bottles from weeks ago lie there with caps off.

A pen and paper sit on the desk next to a wax candle, rosary beads, pull tabs from beer cans, and a five dollar bill hiding underneath Mamet. My day can begin with an egg sandwich.

I’m the luckiest man in the world.