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.