most of which have cost me just $5 and some time.
In New York City, it was a coat check, a coffee shop,
a black-eye basement, an adorable little haunt located on the Lower East Side
where I wrote a good portion of Her.
In Chicago, it was Brü, a wonky, eclectic Russian-owned café
where no two chairs were the same.
In Portland, it was a Stumptown with bench seating
that runs the length of the shop's walls like a guardrail,
or Bin 21 where I can't tell you how easily the words seemed
to flow whilst overlooking Ladd's Addition.
In Louisville, it was Hell or High Water,
a bar with claustrophobic ceilings
set inside a triangular-shaped building buried deep down an alleyway
at a 5-point pedestrian intersection.
Writing there felt as if I was manning an invisible submarine
that had somehow washed up out of the Ohio River.
In Montreal, it's Retrograde, a room that is no longer there,
but it was wide with badly scarred wood flooring
pulled from the bellies of boxcars and corners overflowing with prickly Canadian cacti.
In LA, it is on a boat.
In South Florida, it is at a long, wooden kitchen table.
set inside a triangular-shaped building buried deep down an alleyway
at a 5-point pedestrian intersection.
Writing there felt as if I was manning an invisible submarine
that had somehow washed up out of the Ohio River.
In Montreal, it's Retrograde, a room that is no longer there,
but it was wide with badly scarred wood flooring
pulled from the bellies of boxcars and corners overflowing with prickly Canadian cacti.
In LA, it is on a boat.
In South Florida, it is at a long, wooden kitchen table.
The words follow me;
I don't follow them.