they wonder how this one

or that one

can endure and

continue.

well, there’s a secret:

don’t expect too

much of Humanity,

they have been

practicing hatred

for centuries,

it’s passed down

refined and

perfected,

oh, they have become

very good at that—

their hatreds blossom

with ever more frequent

regularity.

our public hell creates a

private hell and

there is no hell

except on

earth.

once you accept

this premise

you will be free to

exist

on your own terms

and you will never

know loneliness

and death will be as

nothing.

consider yourself

blessed in the

dark.

3

the singing of fools and the volcano laughing

Lord Byron

he looked like Lord Byron

(or he said he did)

I don’t know what Byron

looked like

I couldn’t even read

him,

but Albert was tall,

fairly well-built

and he had bright

yellow hair,

a whole mane of it,

and his eyes were a

fierce blue

and he had a well-modulated

English

accent

and dozens of

women.

he professed to be

a writer

but I never saw

any of it.

I have no idea

where his income

came

from.

but he always lived

in well-furnished

apartments

with some young

lady of

education.

and as I saw him

on and off

through the years,

he became older

but his ladies

remained

the same

age: 22, 23,

24.

if there is a point

to all this

(and there may

not be) well, it was

that Albert loved

to drink

and I was perhaps

the best

drinker he knew

and he would

invite me over

to imbibe with

him.

it may have been

the contrast—

I was ugly and

crass, I’m sure

I made him look

all the better

to his ladies.

so I would crank

up the old car

and drive over for

the free

booze.

it was always about

the same:

Lord Byron couldn’t

hold his drink,

kept running to the

bathroom to puke,

even though I was

outdrinking him

3 to one.

at

puking time,

I would make a

play for his

lady.

“come on, babe,

let’s work in a

quicky while he vomits his

guts out on the

tiles and in the

toilet.”

“you are

disgusting!”

“thank you,

mam.”

then Albert would

exit pale from the

bathroom,

go to the bookcase,

pull out the work

of Keats or Shelley,

read us

one.

or he would go to

his sound system

and gift us with a

bit of

Vivaldi.

Lord Byron and I were

direct opposites:

he too sensitive to

live in the world

and I too thick to

understand his

pain.

but I was poor and

the drinks were

free

and I got to look up

the finely crossed legs

of his numerous

ladies,

so it was a fair

trade.

until true to his

delicate calling

he suicided one hangover

morning

after finding

a purse full of

pills

belonging to one

of his ladies

and I had to find another

poet to

milk free drinks

outa.