America's Birthday.

The festival;the funeral. William Blake's holy poetic genius, Los.

I move to Pilsen officially in a month. Goodbye white yuppie decadence.

Fireworks are pre-emptive.

My beard is a graveyard.

No more shirts or table cloths.

I'm coming home, coming home, coming home and I am throwing the mountain off of its hillside.

"Just a little joy juice in my cup."