starving there, sitting around the bars,

and at night walking the streets for hours,

the moonlight always seemed fake

to me, mabye it was,

and in the French Quarter I watched

the horses and buggies going by,

everybody sitting high in the open

carriages, the black driver, and in

back the man and the woman,

usually young and always white.

and I was always white.

and hardly charmed by the

world.

New Orleans was a place to

hide.

I could piss away my life,

unmolested.

except for the rats.

the rats in my small dark room

very much resented sharing it

with me.

they were large and fearless

and stared at me with eyes

that spoke

an unblinking

death.

women were beyond me.

they saw something

depraved.

there was one waitress

a little older than

I, she rather smiled,

lingered when she

brought my

coffee.

that was plenty for

me, that was

enough.

there was something about

that city, though:

it didn't let me feel guilty

that I had no feeling for the

things so many others

needed.

it let me alone.

sitting up in my bed

the lights out,

hearing the outside

sounds,

lifting my cheap

bottle of wine,

letting the warmth of

the grape

enter

]me

as I heard the rats

moving about the

room,

I preferred them

to

humans.

being lost,

being crazy mabye

is not so bad

if you can be

that way:

undisturbed.

New Orleans gave me

that.

nobody ever called

my name.

no telephone,

no car,

no job,

no anything.

me and the

rats

and my youth,

one time,

that time

I knew

even through the

nothingness,

it was a

celebration

of something not to

do

but only

know.