Cool Poem

I'm not usually one for poetry, but I really liked this poem (and some of the other poems) by this fellow Everette Maddox, who drank himself to death in 1989 at the age of 44:

New Orleans

for Ralph Adamo

From the air it's all puddles:
a blue-green frog town
on lily pads. More canals
than Amsterdam. You don't
land -- you sink. When
we met, you, the Native, shook
your head. Sweat dropped
on the bar. You said:
"You're sunk. You won't
write a line. You won't make
a nickel. You won't hit
a lick at a snake in this
antebellum sauna-bath. You
won't shit in the morning if
you don't wake up with
your pants down." And you
were right: Three years later
I'm in it up to my eyebrows,
stalled like a streetcar.
My life is under the bed
with the beer bottles.
I'll never write another line
for anything but love
in this city where steam
rises off the street after
a rain like bosoms heaving.

(Reprinted totally without any sort of permission whatsoever because I'm a copyright criminal like that.)