Someone who once said all he wanted to do
was to sit alone up in some room against the wall
with a bottle
watching a fly on the wall
is someone who was describing depression
that deep dark depression that only the lost can feel
only the hopeless can get so blue as to be frozen
that literature spoke of this and to that
and it spoke from the mind of a boxer
and the heart of a survivor
and the soul of an imp
and through all the grit it gave hope
to the forlorn and trapped
who are everywhere;
the stories of the losers are the stories of humanity, mostly
though most wouldn’t see it that way,
or,
perhaps he was simply some buddha type
describing the bliss of absolutely nothing
nothing and nothing.
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