He said that I was trying to copy Bukowski, but I said ‘that’s bullshit’, after all, I barely drink, and my typewriter drops off the top of all the letters. You know I got that typewriter from my mother’s house after she died, but I pretend that it is the one that she bought me when I was 18 and she started to believe in my writing. That was the year I threw all my poems in the trash and she fished them out. She gave them to me three years later, before I left again, and I thanked her. At 55, they are an accusation, but I still have them. I think it is important to let the magpies tell you off now and then. If the path is too wide and amicable, I lose my groove and start listening to smooth jazz instead of Miles Davis. You know Mr. Davis, he’s the one that brought me back from the ledge.