That’s just it, I mean, really, there’s nothing to add. I’ve studied the false ego of the writer, swept away a million skeletons, exhausted myself on the great ocean of life, and concluded that the first task of a man who wants to be a poet is to study his own awareness of himself. What can be learned from books is second to his natural development. No one is born a visionary, only a long journey through all the forms of love, of suffering, and perhaps, too, madness. A poet, then, must first be destroyed. I left you as quickly…
There ought to be a carnival, a sky full of colored balloons drifting on the wind with tags on them saying… goodbye…goodbye…crossing the Golden Gate and on around the world on the trade winds of friendship.
I wish I had moved more slowly, taken more time to arrive at where friendship left off. I wish I had danced and dined more often, learned the meaning of each other’s glances, or taken note how quickly time was passing.
Your warmth and humour always had me feeling a little tipsy, light hearted, as if I’d eaten a perfectly ripe tomato and its…
I had chosen to walk down Princes Street, in Edinburgh, because for a month I had been saving my money, looking forward to the Easter Holiday sale at the House of Fraser.
I read in the newspaper that the first hundred customers would receive a voucher worth an extra ten pounds toward any purchase.
Early as I was, I was not the first in the queue, not the fiftieth even. I would just wait and see if a voucher got handed to me on entry.
I checked my watch. 9:30 a.m. Across the street church folks were coming out of…
I’ve been searching a long time, traveling all around the world, and sometimes that road was hard while waiting for you to come through. I moved along highways, climbed hills, trod the sand looking for a sign, not knowing what that sign might look like.
I sought out the mystic, sailed on the wind, and flew to foreign lands, all the time believing you would come. I followed the fog horns, believing you to be hiding offshore, in the mist, coming home on a bonnie boat. …
Sitting in his nowhere land…
Union Square, even on a mild day, can be cold in the shadows. Men and women sleeping in doorways, or gathering on street corners shooting themselves up. As if these people do not exist, others hasten on by resisting pleas for money or smokes, on their way to buy clothes or meet for lunch.
San Francisco is out of sorts. Sickened. The city’s lower streets filled with years of doldrums, as if that malady had blown in under the Golden Gate Bridge, and the coming down of the mist off the headlands, tender as sleep…
The giant galactic ship, ‘Gondwana,’ travels silently through space, passing between stars, its solid-fuel rockets not fired up in one Earth’s century, a vacuum of cold and hibernation.
She is far from home. That anyone or anything could be that lost, and that alone is unthinkable. But there it is. With the ship’s navigational computer locked up, trajectory unknown, Gondwana is three hundred million miles off course in the infinity that is space, filled with serene light, uncountable dying and forming stars, solar systems, all in a cold unimaginable vastness.
“What’s this, Harry? Oh God, please, no, not space…
I remember the streetlights started to come on all the way down Market Street, flickering, as if about to blow out, and then glowing, shining on the wet road. I remember I was going to meet some drinking friends of mine. Yes, I remember all of that. The gold on my finger didn’t mean a thing after midnight, or the way she said, go out and die, but I’m staying home. I felt like I had all the power. The first woman called my cell phone — my name in her phonebook. I got the time if you got the…
When I was twelve and you were ten
We sat on the harbour wall
My stomach churned
And my cheeks they burned
As my heart for you did fall
Your father said
On that Saturday night
I must never again come by
Stay home he said and wait ten years
And how our hearts did sigh
Ten years they passed
And again we met
It was almost ordained we should
I’ll not be told to stay away
And in front of your father I stood
You’ll be a bold young man But if you care for our daughter dear You’ll…
I left my home in Mendocino early, taking the twist of licorice I call highway 1, cutting inland at Bodega, stopping off in the beautiful town of Petaluma for tea and toast. By 10:00 am, I’m heading down highway 101, toward San Francisco.
I’ve come to think of San Francisco not as a city; it is a midway Plaisance. People migrate to California to be set free, rid themselves of restraint, imagining the town to be somewhat a carnival. …
A piece of prose
It’s a restless, hungry sensation, sailing.
I remember it was a bright day, with no cloud to obscure the sun’s warmth. I wanted to run down the hill, but the weight of my hold-all and the steepness of the slope would have seen me falling head over heels.
Everything growing at the roadside seemed more livid, greener, and lusher than even the smugness of the Scottish countryside could have foretold. …
I was born in London, adopted, lived my youth on an island off the west coast of Scotland. I now live in California. I write to travel.