The American identity has never been a singular one and the voices of poets invariably sing, in addition to their own, the voices of those around them.

During my worst timeson the park benchesin the jailsor living withwhoresI always had this certaincontentment-I wouldn't call ithappiness-it was more of an innerbalancethat settled forwhatever was occuringand it helped in thefactoriesand when relationshipswent wrongwith thegirls.It helpedthrough thewars and thehangoversthe backalley fightsthehospitals.To awaken in a cheap roomin a strange city andpull up the shade-this was the craziest kind ofcontentmentand to walk across the floorto an old dresser with acracked mirror-see myself, ugly,grinning at it all.What matters most ishow well youwalk through thefire.