It's Thanksgiving. I am grateful for
my many blessings. Pretty Michelle
survived her brain surgery. Everybody's working.
No illness, no dope addiction, nobody in prison.
I haven't sold a book to New York yet.
Maybe my 39th year will be the charm.
Maybe I'll go for 40. August 31, 2011.
It's cold. The kids are running around
like wild Indians. I am writing poems in
a Composition book. An old man on a park bench.
No loitering. I'm not loitering, I'm the grandparent.
I have a white, bossman hardhat with Fuck Safety
painted on it. Helmet laws suck.