during
my worst times
on
the park benches
in
the jails
or
living with
whores
I
always had this certain
contentment--
I
wouldn’t call it
happiness--
it
was more of an inner
balance
that
settled for
whatever
was occurring
and
it helped in the
factories
and
when relationships
went
wrong
with
the
girls.
it
helped
through
the
wars
and the
hangovers
the
backalley fights
the
hospitals.
to
awaken in a cheap room
in
a strange city and
pull
up the shade--
this
was the craziest kind of
contentment
and
to walk across the floor
to
an old dresser with a
cracked
mirror--
see
myself, ugly,
grinning
at it all.
what
matters most is
how
well you
walk
through the
fire.
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