A poem about a writer who fancies himself to be blacklisted.

He spoke to me in soft tones,
The bar was closing, the floors
Were being swept of debris
By a Mexican

At first I thought he was mad,
Though he was clad in fine attire
There was an unsettled look
To his eyes - his bloodshot eyes

He'd been drinking heavily -
Talking and talking
At times incoherently
About The Times
And the Saturday Review

"I am a genius with a pen,"
The men said with a pointed stare
"I wrote seven novels - all of them
Masterpieces from start
To finish."

Why should I believe him?
I thought.
Surely he is mad,
And there's always a reason
Or so I told him

"Indeed," he said. "Suicide,
Robbery, and drunken driving."

"But what does that have to do
With the quality of your writing?
Artists were often considered
Strange by the rationalists
Of their day," I stated boldly.

"Yes," he said. "Exactly my point."

Then he drew out a pistol
From his coat - and waved it
In the smoke filled room
Until the glare of the lights
Stabbed at my eyes
Until the scene faded
And he disappeared
Like a wraith into the night

Then I wandered out myself
Into the vacant streets
Where I thought I saw a spirit
Rise into the moonlight
With the laughter of a clown

"Your day will come," a voice echoed
But I knew it never would