Leonard Cohen said that if your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Things are burning well, clove cigarettes on a 70-degree night… pass me that lighter… take a match to that candle. Last weekend I roadtripped to Wisconsin and bummed around a tiny farm town. We hiked around Devil’s Lake and over abandoned train tracks, stayed in Linda and Steve’s mini-cabin of stuffed owls and giant tree murals, drank free coffee in the morning, ate bad Chinese food in the afternoon, walked around Madison for a day, spent an hour walking down Williamson St. and found a flea market in an old movie theater where we could get popcorn with real butter for the walk back to the car. I haven’t found the bigger picture yet; I’m just collecting little bits of ash and flame while they last.

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