maybe I’m going crazy, that’s all right
but these poems keep rising to the top of my
head with more and more
force. now
after the oceans of booze that I have
consumed
it would only seem that attrition would
be my rightful reward as I continue to
consume—while
the madhouses, skidrows and graveyards are
filled with the likes of
me—
yet each night as I sit down to this machine
with my bottle
the poems flare and jump out, on and
on—roaring in the glee of
easy power: 65 years
dancing—my mouth curling into a
tiny grin
as these keys keep meting out a
substantial energy of cock-
eyed miracle.

the gods have been kind to me through this
life-style that would have killed
an ox of a man
and I’m no ox of a
man.

I sensed from the beginning, of
course, that there was a strange gnawing
inside of me
but I never dreamed this
luck
this absolute shot of
grace

my death will at most seem
an
afterthought.