Sometimes cities move at you like lava and you think, briefly, this is a dangerous situation. But then you find yourself sitting just across from New Jersey in a place called, The Poet's House, and you feel glad that such houses have yet to be swallowed by America's flowing glow. And hey, you say to yourself, there are places that take you to Coney Island, and you begin to dream of growing land masses, cyclones and the beautiful uselessness of such things in March. That's when you find yourself in a place called Alphabet City reading poems with people you quickly fall in love with and then spend the rest of your night talking about Indians, Ted Berrigan, seeing billboards unlike anyone else because you made them, and how, regardless of their resistance, you will make Jan and Deb miss you when you leave. The next morning, you will wake up with a flight to catch, a handful of mix cd's for everyone's mother, as well as a mouthful of strawberries, and be glad that the lava hasn't caught you yet. Maybe you will be glad about this tomorrow too, but it's so hard to know such things, what with all that shifting astrology...