it’s one a.m. in a dead cow world.

you ask her how much for head,

drink everything down, it tastes

like machine oil.

you leave Madame Death there.

you leave the sneering bartender

there.

you have remembered where

your room is.

the room with the full bottle of

wine on the dresser.

the room with the dance of the

roaches.

Perfection in the Stars

where love died

laughing.

total madness

all right, I know that you are tired of hearing

it

but how about this one last time?

all those tiny rooms in all those cities,

going from one city to another

from one cheap rented room to another

terrified and sickened of what people were.

it was the same any place and every place,

thousands and thousands of miles spent

looking out the window of a Greyhound bus,

listening to them talk, looking at them,

their heads, their ears, the way they walked.

these were strangers from somewhere else,

lifeless parallel perpendiculars,

they drove the blade through my gut,

even the lovely girls,

with guile of eye, with the lilt and magic of

their bodies

where only a down payment on a

mirage,

life’s cheap trick.

I went from room to room

from city to city,

hiding, looking, waiting…

for what?

for nothing but the

irresponsible and negative

desire

to at least

not be like

them.

I loved those old rooms,

the worn rugs,

the walk down the hall

to the bathroom,

even the rats and the

mice and the roaches

were comrades…

and along the way

somehow I discovered

the classical composers.

I had an old record player.

and rather than eat

I used what funds I had

for cheap wine and

record albums.

and I rolled cigarettes,

smoked, drank,

listened to the music

in the dark.

I remember one particular

night

when Wagner really

lifted the ceiling off

my room

I got up

out of bed

joy-stricken,

I stood there and lifted

both arms toward the

ceiling

and I caught sight of

myself in the dresser

mirror

and there was nothing left

of me,

a skeleton of a man,

down from 200 pounds to

130,

with sunken

cheeks.

I saw this death skull

looking at me

and it was so

ridiculous and so lovely

that I started to laugh

and the thing in the mirror

laughed back

and it got

funnier and funnier

as I lifted my arms

higher toward the

ceiling.

and along with those old

rooms,

I was lucky,

I had gentle old landladies,

with pictures of

Christ on the stairways,

but they were always nice

in spite of that.

“Mr. Chinaski, your rent is

overdue, are you all

right?”

“oh, yes, thank you.”

“I hear your music playing,

night and day,

you sit in your room night

and day with the shades

pulled down…

are you all right?”

“I’m a writer.”

“a writer?”

“yes, I just sent something

to the New Yorker

I’m sure I’ll be hearing from