god, there he is drunk again
telling the same old stories
over and over again
as they push him for
more—some with nothing
else to do, others
secretly snickering
at this
great writer
babbling
drooling
in his little white
rat
whiskers
talking about 
war
talking about the
wars
talking about the brave
fish
the bullfights
even about his wives.

the people 
come into the
bar
night after night
for the same old
show
which he will one day
end
alone
blowing his brains to
the walls.

the price of creation
is never
too high.

the price of living
with other people
always
is.