a fighter on the docks,
killed a man while they were unloading
I mean the man he killed
clubbed him first
with an anchor chain
(something about a woman)
and we all circled around
the pleasures of the damned
are limited to brief moments
like the eyes in the look of a dog,
like a square of wax,
like a fire taking the city hall,
sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 junkies,
brown paper bags filled with trash are
it is one-thirty in the afternoon.
they talk about madhouses,
they are waiting for a fix.
none of them work.
laughing at nothing—
let me tell you
I have drunk in skid row rooms with
whose cause was better
whose eyes still held some light
whose voices retained some sensibility,
and when ...