WASHINGTON, D.C. – Well no wonder the federal government works as well as a dull razor on a heavy beard. There's no air here.

Yes, I am in Our Nation's Capital in early August, which is like tumbling around a dryer with a bundle of wet towels, only not as clean-smelling. It is not an environment that is conducive to clear thinking. The brain, like an automobile engine, needs coolant if it is to function properly. And coolant is in short supply around here during the summer months.

Unless you spend your time in air-conditioned limos and offices, as Messrs. Obama, Boehner, McConnell and company doubtless do, but these are not exactly healthful vapors either. My hotel room was so cold when I checked in that I felt like I had an entire scoop of ice cream in my mouth.

Take your choice: Outside the brain seizes; inside, it freezes.

Having just spent time in Northern California, I have a solution. Remember Nixon's Western White House in San Clemente, or Reagan's in Santa Barbara? What this country needs is a Western Capital. Getting these guys out of the heat, haze and humidity wouldn't guarantee a free-range chicken in every pot and a good 5-cent cigar, but hey, if we can't throw the bums out for good, we can at least hope that the change of air will do them, and therefore us, good.

Incidentally, when I looked into the question of why our capital city was built on a swamp, I learned that Washingtonians love to argue about this exact issue (see, for example, this thread). The consensus seems to be that swamp, though a handy metaphor for the political culture of the place, does not accurately describe the hydrology of the lands between the Potomac and Anacostia rivers.

In fact, it's the hot air endlessly emitted by pols and pundits that has contributed to the district's swampy reputation, rather than the other way around.

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And speaking of the feds, just think: By reading this column, you are just one degree of separation from the Poet Laureate of the United States.

The Library of Congress, which is where I have been spending my time this week, announced on Wednesday that Philip Levine will serve in that capacity for the next year. The one degree of separation stems from the fact that I interviewed Levine and profiled him for the Los Angeles Times during the early '90s.

I was thrilled to get the assignment. I had been a fan since my undergraduate days as a creative writing major. When Levine came to Binghamton to read from his work and needed a ride to his next gig in Syracuse, I volunteered, and was disappointed when I got aced out by someone who was driving to Syracuse anyway.

I recalled all this for Levine when I showed up at his house in Fresno to do the interview. Given how excited I was about meeting one of my poetry heroes, it will perhaps not surprise you to learn that it was one of the worst interviews I ever did.

I couldn't stop talking. I would ask him a question, then interrupt his response, so eager was I to show off my own poetry knowledge.

I recall two great quotes from that interview. The city of Fresno prides itself on being a jumping-off point for visits to Yosemite National Park and the High Sierra. (Just last month, as it happens, I visited Fresno after backpacking in the mountains.) So I asked Levine, who grew up in Detroit, if he ever went hiking.

His wisecrack response: "Hiking was what we did in Detroit when the car broke down."

The other great quote emerged when I asked Levine if he had given any thought to leaving Fresno. He had moved there in the '50s to teach at Fresno State. When I got there he had just retired so I wondered if he was considering going elsewhere.

"What?" he said. "And give up my mechanic and my dentist?"

These days, the new poet laureate divides his time between Fresno and Brooklyn. I hope he comes to Washington from time to time to fulfill his official duties. His voice would bring a breath of fresh air to a city that could use it.

To get a sense of what I mean go to the famous poets and poems site. Here's a snippet that resonates with me because I visited Detroit this summer and thought about Levine while I was there. It's called "The Water's Chant":

I have gone home to the city
of my birth and found it gone,
a gray and treeless one now in its place.
The one house I loved the most
simply missing in a row of houses,
the park where I napped on summer days
fenced and locked, the great shop
where we forged, a plane of rubble,
the old hurt faces turned away.