Along the Road to Zelda’s Sanitarium

sometimes I dream

of fredrick exley

sitting on his

mothers sofa in

his underwear a

screwdriver in his

sweaty right hand

pabst blue ribbon

cans scattered about

the floor and

a typewriter on

the dining room

table with a

first draft under

way next to

the ash tray

with a filterless

cigarette on its

rim still smoking

as anxious frederick

sits and ponders

the human condition

gazing through his

blood shot eyes

staring at the

door as if

something sinister was

lurking on the

other side like

death with its

cold ear placed

up close listening

in with a large

grin on its

sadistic face waiting

patiently for the

years of drinking

and smoking to

take their toll

and claim another

sad untethered genius