Jack Kerouac was King of the Beatniks.
Henry Miller was the King of Smut.
Bukowski was the King of the Hard-Mouthed Poets.
Brenda took my picture with model, dancer, actress,
and bikini-lawnmower-service-operator Glori-Anne Gilbert
biting my neck. As the bum said to the fashion model
when he offered her a sandwich and she demurred,
I suppose a fuck would be out of the question.
I see dead people. I write about them as if I knew them.

If I lived in New York I would meet fashion models on the subway.
Well, I wouldn't meet them. But I would see them. I would see
Hemingway buying a Burberry, or Frank Gifford having a drink
at Toots Shor's. I think I was on Singer Island at the same time
Frederick Exley was. I think I went to Palm Beach Junior College
at the same time as Charles Willeford. He called my writing
off the wall. Perhaps he called it out there. Colonel Bruce
made an outstructional video. He asks Owen about me.
Outside the outsider. Beneath the underdog.
Beneath the jazz musician. Some blood
with your turnip? How's your dad, son?
We'll see the grandchildren.
I have a lot to write about.
A lot to do today. Get up early.