Liner Notes...

I go back to Sylvia Plath when I'm unsure of what else to do. {She's constant, if nothing else.} She competes with James Baldwin and ee cummings, and they usually let her win. They have a place for me that no person can quite come between. I sleep in nights of Natalie Merchant and wake up to mornings of Portishead. I commute to Bruce Springsteen and home from Smashing Pumpkins.

I call up Jay Z and make plans with our friends for the weekend. I cancel my guitar lesson with Ben Harper because Jewel stopped by and I've not seen her in way too long.

I dream of surfing with Eddie Vedder then writing of it to F. Scott Fitzgerald. I raise my glass to that miserable bastard I adore so much, Mr. Hemingway. PJ Harvey meets me for coffee, but I have hot chocolate. We talk about the last time we saw Edna St. Vincent Millay, and wonder how she's doing now.

I take notes of Chantal Kreviazuk and keep them in a notebook I share with Billy Collins. I shop for Dorothy Parker, and pick up a Coltrane record for her in a thrift store I heard about from Lenka.

Natalie shows up again and I read to her my latest bleedings.

I grieve for Michael Stipe and blame Kurt Cobain.