He wasn't much to look at after
the suicide attempt, the fire that singed
his hair down to the scalp plus the third
degree burns on his body and all those
rusty razor blade cuts that really make a mess
out of a man. Spanging now for him was
like a California Gold Rush for street
beggars with all those obvious brutal
wounds: he not only looked the part of
hapless and homeless, but is suggested
whatever part, in whatever action movie
he was the star of, he was pure Method
and it doesn't get any more real than that.
Some of the regular panhandlers dubbed
him the Marlon Brando of Skidrow,
the highest sort of praise known to man.
The money was so good , he could
afford top shelf: Cognac and sleeping pills,
Fly Me to the Moon cocktails that spawned
fevered dramatic monologues on street corners
and in movie theaters, leading some to believe
he had discovered the secret of animating
stationery objects for audience appreciation
and participation. Still, even as the good
times rolled, it became obvious that even as the
hallucinations danced for him, as the silver
screens turned to gold, he was headed
for the White Room of No Return, the one
where the spikes were loaded with enough
juice to kill all those mythical beasts
epic poems were made of.


                            Alan Catlin