People only ever want to ask me about the poetry - those verses about busted up noses in outer space; about the pros working way down passed the corner of Broad and Main; about fistfights and hard, hard drinking. But I built a flowerbed this weekend... Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks in a crescent moon shape, filled with the blackest of soils. The sweat of toil. The digging. The planting. Exotic grasses. Asian maybe? Purple and yellow flowers. Zinnias or some **** thing. All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch. It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands instead of blood. No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.