i can remember starving in a small room in a strange city shades pulled down, listening to classical music i was young i was so young it hurt like a knife inside because there was no alternative except to hide as long as possible - not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance: trying to connect.

charles bukowski

the old composers – mozart, bach, beethoven,

brahms were the only ones who spoke to me and

they were dead.

finally, starved and beaten, I had to go into

the streets to be interviewed for low-paying and

monotonous

jobs

by strange men behind desks

men without eyes men without faces

who would take my hours

break them

piss on them.

now I work for the editors the readers the critics

but still hang around and drink with

mozart, bach, brahms and the

bee

some buddies

some men

sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone

are the dead

rattling the walls

that close us in.