the rivers of hell are mine,

mine,

the rivers of hell

flowing

moving

with me,

my hells can only be

my hells,

if they’re mine now and

maybe

forever,

so be

it.

dark, and darker

if I can find one hour of peace a day

I can survive.

that’s one old-fashioned hour, 60 minutes,

one hour, please, let me have it now, today,

this day, this night, which is almost over.

let me have that hour, something is closing

in, fast.

what a horror show it has been, to have been

put upon the earth for this, it’s unreasonable,

it’s beyond

reason.

a screeching doom.

it began so long ago.

the room

nothing changes,

I am backed into this small room

like all the other small

rooms.

5 decades ago

I sat as a young man

before a machine,

the door closed,

the shades pulled

down.

now it is not the same

machine or

the same

young man.

the radio plays

and as I hit the keys

I recognize the classical

music,

I heard it half a century

before.

“peace and quiet are in

your future.”

was the message in a

fortune cookie I opened

this week.

and I thought, maybe death

will be

that.

backed into this small room,

I make my last

stand.

the walls rise splendidly

up,

my cigarette smoke and

the music

rise.

the words bite into the

page.

my wrist watch on the

desk says

1:55 a.m.

the door is

open.

the two toughest

there’s this big guy comes to see me, he sits in

this big chair and starts smoking cigars

and I bring out the wine

and we pour it down.

the big guy gulps them down and I gulp

right along with him.

he doesn’t say much, he’s a stoic.

when other people visit they say, “Jesus, Hank,

what do you see in that guy?”

and I say, “hey, he’s my hero, every man has to have a

hero.”

the big guy just keeps lighting cigars and drinking.

he never even gets up to piss, he doesn’t have

to.

he doesn’t bother.

he smokes ten cigars a night and matches me

drink for drink.

he doesn’t blink.

I don’t either.

even when we talk about women we

agree.

it’s best when we’re alone because he never

talks to the other people.

and I never remember seeing him

leave.

in the morning his chair is there

and all the cigar stubs and

all the empty bottles but he’s

gone.

what I like best is he never disturbs the

image I have of him,

he’s a tough son-of-a-bitch and I’m a

tough son-of-a-bitch

and we meet about once

every 3 months and put on our

performance.

anything more than that would

wipe us

both

out.

the darkening light

there are more and more

old people, middle-aged

people, young people,

children, babies,

deaths, marriages,

divorces, wars,

diseases,

sparrows,

songs,

cars,

you,