The critics now have me drinking champagne and driving a BMW and also married to a socialite from Philadelphia's Main Line which of course is going to prevent me from writing my earthy and grubby stuff. And they might be right, I could be getting to be more like them, and that's as close to death as you can get. We'll see. But don't bury me yet. Don't worry if I drink with Sean Penn. Just measure the poems as they come off the keyboard. Listen only to them. After this long fight I have no intention of quitting short. Or late. Or satisfied.