class now in session . . .

(did you buy your books?)

--this is what I'm reading now,

(I'll keep you updated regarding where the discussion is headed . . .)

on the road

Under this motel, concrete; and under that scab, the land. A single pulse. From the cum-stained black box of the Troubadour to the imperial balconies of the Fillmore, we can't help but be of one mind. Just as the women cleaning the room where we've chased Benadryl with whiskey are singing; so are we, from our atolls of isolation, singing. The song of whatever it is to be living, in a particular skin, one among many, animated by the great pulse of the land. A record of our attempts. All the awful driving toward immortality.~Lisa Wells