this is another poem about 3 a.m. and how I'm still sitting

here listening to classical music and smoking a good 

cigar.

hell, I don't know, sometimes I feel just like Van Gogh or

    Fante or,

say, Stravinsky, as I sip wine and type

and smoke and there's no magic as gentle as this.

maybe I write the same shit,

sometimes I do and sometimes I don't, but when I do the

reason is that it feels so right, it's like making love and

if you knew how good it felt you would forgive me

because we both know how fickle happiness can be.

so I play the fool and say again that 

It's 3 a.m.

and that I am

Brahms

Vivaldi

Doestovevsky

embracing everything:

the sweep of cigar smoke,

another glass of wine,

the woman that love others,

the criminals and the killers,

the lonely mad,

this music,

I repeat it all again

and I'll repeat it all forever

until the magic that happens to me

happens to you