except for the murder, the poem sounds like it's about Joe Gould. a sometimes poet, rarely published, who was known as more of a character. he claimed to be writing a huge work titled An Oral History of Our Time. but after his death only a few notes were found. some claimed it was hidden somewhere in one of his old haunts, but never turned up. Joseph Mitchell, the excellent New Yorker writer, was one who thought the work existed, but when it wasn't found he felt cheated by Gould who had become a friend of sorts. he wrote a scathing tyrade against Gould and although he stayed on with the New Yorker, he hardly wrote again, even tough he lived for decades after.
Ross Wetzsteon called Gould "the last of the last bohemians."