California!

Oregon, rain.

His name is my name, too.

I'm sitting at a table inside the Florence public library.  

It's the first time that I've had access to electricity in five days.

I met a man travelling by bicycle from Alaska to Argentina.

Twenty-five thousand kilometers.

His name is also my name.

For the next five days, rain.

-m

The Argentine

Skemp

Indeed

Old Hwy 101

[Portland is cool because everyone here is from somewhere else.]

Mars, I think.  They all smile and wave.

There are bookstores the size of city blocks.  They are filled with French hitch-hikers and coffee shops and carefully folded paper.  I needed a map to find myself.  In the Pearl Room, a novelist. At the front desk, a novelist.  Mopping the bathroom, a poet.

The streets are alphabetically and numerically arranged.  People can't read them due to a lack of fluoride in the faucet and red-meat in the large intestine.

There are literary readings filled with listeners who demand nothing original.  

In the middle of the city, a forest writes autobiographies.

On the horizon, past the sunset,
three mountains.

-m

Spacebar

Spaceburns

Spacepath

Space birds

(from space.)

Top of the Hill