17 Jan 2016



These streets have
no names, turns without corners,
unseen, known like home.
The only landmarks in these alien parts
are these familiar footprints I
come across, treading over
as if it will provoke
answers out of the reticent earth
in this twilight of reason.

Some breed of fear moves
beneath its midnight pool whose
ripples I can see, but even now
sight, out of oath, betrays me.


Here inside the darkened palace, doors
outnumber keys.
Rising stairs somehow
descend to places where instinct's broken
compass knows no north.

Paces whisper down
the hallway I seem
to swim along.
The only light is on
my back, casting
the long shadow of
uncertainty. I recognise it now.
I've been here before.

All doubts weighed,
resistance met in kind,
I found humility in surrender
as I drifted among liquid hours.

When will I meet myself?
When will I—
When I understood, I laughed.


We left time some way
back when it slipped from our grasp
like some plaything
out of the curious hand of
a wandering child,
now out upon the expanse.

Beneath the holographic sky,
we became ourselves.
The storm clouds didn't take the stars
with them when they left.
Here is infinity.
Let's take our time.
As long as the journey lasts,
it never ends.


Where did it all begin?
We've been here so long, though
the way we came is now hidden
behind peak and valley, the way out
over some unmade horizon.
Between is a fine stroke,
the halcyon madness
on a painting without edge or centre,
the painting we'll never finish.

Man for No Seasons

I find myself in San Diego, a safe distance from L.A. and that surreal hollowness I find more stifling than the heat. I already miss the open-aired isolation of Alaska, a world away from Texas and yet otherworldly compared to the rest of the country in some oddly similar way—something I'd never admit to any Texan and probably not any Alaskan either.

The money will run out soon, though. I drink from any wealth I might possess like water from a tap. I never learned to handle finances and, never settling down, out of sheer habit treat every advance, paycheck and royalty as my first, or last. I'm all the more aware of it as I try to navigate through the mall and pass by all those seemingly as lost as I am, like peacocks with all the colors of their shopping bags, lurid arrays of feathers. I wonder what kind of bird I look like to them with my rough edges and wandering gazes.

I am a writer by trade, at a point in my life now at which it seems clear that writing is the only thing I can do. Newspaper columns, magazine articles, travel guides, radio plays, shorts for anthologies, critical essays, lamppost poetry—everything I can, anything I ought to, I do. Sometimes I worry—foolishly, I know—that I will string together so many meaningless words that I will find myself with nothing to write and will be forced to come up with some convoluted new genre in order to survive.

I return to the motel in an attempt to escape, futile though it may be, as it is still a boat on the open sea for one who cannot stand the water. The unfailing Californian sun finds its way through the shuttered blinds to give the room a burnt brown hue, and so it feels like a cocoon to me. Soon, as for a pupa, it becomes unbearable and I must release myself from it.

Even when I stop at a single place I must encircle it so as not to feel pinned down like an insect by a collector. I drink at a couple of bars I haven't yet visited before quickly tiring of them. Walking down the main street, I feel shuttled as if drifting on through Disneyland, from location to location surrounded by cardboard cut-outs, set pieces, images of manufactured idylls that almost seem to carry price tags. I trudge along the distressingly clean (manicured?) beach, careful with drunken steps not to fill my shoes with the flawless sand.

I should admit that I drink often, which is to say constantly. I eat only as I need to, having little interest in food. I cannot, even after having traveled for days on end, sleep more than six hours a night. I do not dream, or rather if I do, I cannot distinguish it from what I endearingly refer to as reality. The best understanding I have of that notion I take from what others have told me.

I don't frequent any kind of bar in particular; they are the gas stations and rest stops along the road to anywhere as my last drink fades. Many know better than to engage with me in conversation once they see the look inadvertently asking, Can you break this spell or are you here to perpetuate it? This drastically limits one's social life, as what is left in my net are the most curious, unusual and out-of-place characters, food for my soul.

I've met a transgender bank robber from the East Coast (whose drink of choice was a lime vodka). There was the man who'd fled to Canada to avoid the draft, only to enlist as a Mountie (tequila, straight). Most recently was a former bull rider who retired after a shattered hip, a man who insisted his grandfather was the last true cowboy (Coors and only Coors).

A fellow I once met on my way somewhere—I can't recall if it was Tulsa or Topeka—had called me a man for no seasons. True, I suppose, because seasons are given to change. I'm a stranger in a strange land, and the two negatives cancel out one another. What I'm left with is an absurd sort of oneness, the only kind I believe it is possible for me to experience in this lifetime, and so I am grateful for it, if begrudgingly so.

I once overheard a man, a psychoanalyst perhaps, explain that the human mind craves the stimulation found in new environments and experiences. For him this meant the importance of vacationing somewhere new each year or to have one's child learn to play a musical instrument.

Myself, I realized then that I had a surplus of this precious stimulation, that my life was a carousel of painted-on smiles at check-in desks, the arid departure lounges of regional airports and miserably familiar bars. It all batters my brain like artillery fire, and so I write incessantly to direct this inflow of reality back out again. Here I am, scrawling this confession of sorts on a series of napkins in an overly comfortable restaurant as I wait for soup.

To feel stuck in time while never remaining in one place is a bizarre thing I have yet to find the words to describe adequately. I am a man for no seasons. It isn't wanderlust that drags me here and there, far away and then back again, and it isn't the promise of work either. What moves me is something as invisible yet pervasive as the wind, to the point that when I feel a gust, I feel it is time to go.

Goodbye, San Diego. I'll see you when I see you.