Wednesday, August 17, 2005


No, I'm not heading there, that's not Plan B, but now that I think of it....

No, I'm saying, don't cry for me. I'm an unemployed quadriplegic poet and if that isn't a license to print money, then I don't know what is.

And, clearly, I don't.

But, seriously, you darlings, you lovelies: yeah, it sucks right now. But I reckon I'll pull through and figure something out. That something may be abject poverty but at least it'll be mine, all mine.

Thanks for everyone's good wishes. You may send duffle bags of cash and/or gold bullion or, preferably, skee-ball tickets.


A.R.B. said...

My thoughts with you, Paul, from this corner of the world. Stay on and hard.


rebecca said...

well, i admire your pluck...not enough poets around with honest-to-god pluck.

if i can do anything to help, please let me know.

Emily Lloyd said...

Skee-ball was already on my agenda for tomorrow, Paul. All my tickets are yours. Some love in there, too.