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Slept in a home of stones stacked against the west coast. Ferns and moss indoors. |
Here where the women tip whiskies while the foreign boys forfeit to tea. |
I took up grad school -- then threw it down, smashed it, and gleaned the luscious bits. |
@Blaine has brought me new poetry, a pipe... "Ceci n'est pas ironique". |
Rain washes windows, wind buttles waves, and church bells bark their Sunday song. |
@Blaine , the ocean is calling you back. It's SHOUTING. You'd better hurry. |
I stay up later than the town pub; the lighthouse, much later than me. |
@Blaine is allergic to wool. He knits. Conflicted enough for this film? [ bit.ly/wool100 ] |
Cantaloupe, toffee, summer-dry grass, and hot tar: Locke's 8 Year Whiskey. |
Oranges peeled in Stradivarian Ss and Bosphoran straits. |
Working the dearth of sunlight like a fruit bat: wide eyes and oranges! |
Covertly, good bread and existentialism both count on magic. |
@rabble -- you should try Belfast; we're onto sixteen hours of night per day! |
The sea's a mirror of gardens. Steam trains chuff; I write along the waves. |
Anachronistic, shamanchronistic -- nothing like a fountain pen. |
Saw @Blaine off at dawn. Oh, Minneapolis, how could you be so cruel. |
The wind is stealing down through the chimney smelling of old cold coal soot. |
Sea and sky in such a close embrace that you can't tell where either ends. |
The sun now sets at four thirty. Deja vu in the dark, back up North. |
I learn of books from people, in order to learn of people from books. |
