Lost in that I can’t be found

riding down the Marginal

through Praca Espagna

under the aqueduct

into Lisbon 

where Marco sells two

Euro bits of hash

and the boys drink

Sagres all day

it looks like no one

lives here she said

no one does I said

For twenty three years

there was a leak in the roof

I stuffed it with a plastic bag

when we first moved in

forgot then spent ten years

writing and drinking smoking

while it endlessly rained

mornings hungover on terraces

wandering the east afternoons

leaving the lotus eaters

to laugh alone

one night around eleven

I went out they were still there

what are you doing here they asked

the dumb music blared

I was bored I said

of writing and drinking smoking

no one knew I wrote

I never learned Danish

or Dutch or Portuguese

or French or Spanish

but I lived there 

I asked Rita

if I could

sleep with her

tonight she said

yes 

the right of every man 

to sick himself on the world

no rainbows in the low sky

the water is feared

they resemble the rain

wind torn salt savaged

drinking and smoking

there’s nothing to confess 

fix it if it works  

and if it’s broken

hide it in the shadow

of the Golden Age

 

oh worthless acts of living

January was a death sentence

today it was warm

the sun reminded us

the conversation’s dull

but no one loves them like family

nothing upstairs is a waste of time

even if you can’t read

he fell and wanted more

even though it hurt