Bolinas, CA

Sitting in the sun at a cafe that's spilled outside, looking at the stragglers, misfits of town, the impression of red wine and pot emerges strongly; maybe because that's what a majority of the population was doing right then on a Tuesday afternoon at 2 p.m., and what I imagined doing: moving to Bolinas, doing some type of manual labor, playing Charley Patton blues on a guitar and drinking red wine and smoking pot on a Tuesday afternoon at 2 p.m., then running to the beach with my surfboard to catch the pre-evening break that's just rolling in, riding the earth's wavelengths at the opening to the hollow, long, penetrating deadman's cove where deaths appear, "woman in pink skirt found dead in a canoe," and then lay on the beachsand still radiating sunwarmth and let the wind bury me grain by grain to be with all those million-year sea shells, hollow rocks, haphazard ocean sounds murmuring something less than sleep, something more than, than, than ...