I don't think I have ever really gotten Leopold Bloom's interior ramblings out of my head! I am sure that voice continues to inspire the walking consciousness in my work - that is, the way I carry on an interior monologue as I walk through this city.

Basically when I'm walking I'm not consciously writing or intending anything. In the manner I have learned from meditation practice, I let things unfold.

I have fallen in love with American names, the sharp, gaunt names that never get fat.

I do think that the kind of writing that I do will always be around and printed in books, magazines, and now blogs.

A phrase may come to me as I am walking, and, once I write it down in my journal, the rest of the poem will unravel from that catalyst.

I died in my boots like a pioneer With the whole wide sky above me.

Dreaming men are haunted men.