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 damn 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.