These days even in the desert one can't walk far before coming upon homes in which a starry-eyed poet
is not welcome. Why should I stray from this neighborhood where, a few blocks away Bill Wordsworth,
and his sister, Dorothy, embroidering her journals, live. Coleridge frequently drops by to read his poems,
and smoke some weed. While that crusty old mimic who calls himself Homer, paces in front of the local
coffeehouse, mumbling old myths, as if "bear
(ing) witness to these most ancient and mysterious forms
of linguistic expression."

About half a mile away, there's a small pond in which two old frogs croak.
On its shore, Basho sits in a hut built next to his namesake tree watching
vintage samurai movies on cable TV. Some mornings, we drink green tea
as Venus rises in the pond from the neighboring darkness below.