Saroyan told his wife, “I’ve got to
gamble in order to
write.” she told him to
go ahead.

he lost $350,000.00
mostly at the racetrack
but still couldn’t write or
pay his taxes.

he ran from the govt. 
and exiled himself
in Paris.

he later came back, sweated it
out
in hock up to his 
ass—
royalties dropping
off.

he still couldn’t write or
what he wrote didn’t
work
because that tremendous
brave optimism
that buoyed everybody up
so well
during the depression
just turned to
sugar water
during
good times.

he died
a dwindling legend
with a huge handlebar
mustache
just like his father
used to have
in the old Fresno
Armenian way
in a world that
could no longer
use
William.