I can remember straving 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.
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 withut 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 the 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.
--bukowski
