(Dedicated to the useless gentrificationers of genuine pain)

Nobody wants to admit it
But we are ashamed of our past
‘I did not grow up poor in deep shit
And my fun parents made me laugh’

My happy childhood is the death of me
How dare my parents mock my artistry

Goddam daddy who didn’t drink
And mom who didn’t fuck the town
What was I supposed to think
When they failed to let me down

My happy childhood is the death of me
How dare my parents mock my artistry

Gramps didn’t stick his hands down my pants
Ain’t no hood profit in picket fence life
Credible people don’t stand a chance
Only the damned know how to bleed right

My happy childhood is the death of me
How dare my parents mock my artistry

(Artifacts of a past well remembered–both establishments these came from have been replaced by parking garages. The fuckers.)

(This is a neighbor whom I call “Da Blues.” He is a gregarious Russian Blue, his owner is very nice–but, for the love of God–do not dress your pets!)

(Pieces of the Twin Towers at The Evergreen Park 9-11 Memorial, Bremerton, WA)