These poems don't ask for your sympathy. They don't explain themselves. They were written the way the guy who wrote them lived — fast, loud, honest, and without much regard for what anyone thought.

Thirty-four poems across thirty years, moving from the streets of Los Angeles through the long grind of getting older and the slow, strange business of still being alive when you half-expected not to be. Dark comedy, raw feeling, and the occasional moment of something that looks almost like peace.

Four parts: Living Too Fast. The Game. Sick in My Head. Falling.