Listening. Ferlinghetti. Ginsberg. Bukowski.

I think iTunes is one of my more dangerous addictions. Waking up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep, I click on the little icon at the bottom of my screen. A quick search for something interesting in the store, thirty seconds of music or words spoken aloud by poets dead and alive that pull me in, make me want to listen to more. A few clicks of the mouse, the shopping cart is full, ready to download. It started with Ferlinghetti. Then Ginsberg. Then tonight, I discovered Bukowski (not reading his poetry, just talking, which was so fucking hilarious I almost fell off the bed laughing). What each experience taught me again and again is that there is nothing like hearing a writer read his own work. It is startling to hear the recordings, humbling, exhilarating, dizzying, intoxicating, to hear these poets, these giants, their voices, the rythm of their words, each intake of breath.

Forget drinking, smoking, gambling. Words are all I need. I think I need literature more than I need air, food, clothes....even love.