Matt McGee

I USED TO GIVE HIM HIS PENCILS

said the bartender. "Used to

live in one of those shabby rooms 

up on top of the Emporium Hotel, or

what used to be the Emporium,

and he'd come down here and drink

like a fuckin' fish. When he died

he still owed me $130." I've already

stopped listening. "But, yeah,

he'd come down here with some

great idea or another, or he'd

drink until he had a great idea,

and he'd always say 'hey Bill, ya

got a pencil, something to write

with?" And I'd go back there to

that there cup, drop him another

writing stick and never see it

OR my tab again. I don't know why

I kept serving the guy. 'Specially

later on when he had money."

And I know what he's up to,

he just wants me to ask for one of the his 

shitty pencils, fresh from the coffee mug of infamy

or if I'm really stupid, to slip him $130 

just to say I paid off a famous writer's tab

like the six fresh-faced writers before me, 

who always seem to be chasing 

L.A.'s ghosts.

I sip at my beer

which hadn't been too bad

but suddenly ain't so great

and eventually get up to leave him 

with his memories, fantasies,

or maybe both.