I live high amid the mountains.
My interior decorator, nature.
My bath, a fresh mountain lake.
My music, the symphony of the birds.
A thunderstorm, Le Sacre du printemps.
My television, three series I never miss.
The Sunrise, the Sunset and the Moon.
Never have I found myself so empty
As each day is cast before me.
My life had been a dream, a practice of
Melville, Conrad, Kerouac, an application of living like fiction.
My ambition was to live the lives I had read about
Van Gogh, Lawrence, Mohandas Gandhi, determined not to be conventional.
This led me through the world of Opera, Ballet, Film and Poetry
La Bohemè of San Francisco, Han Shan of Marin, Filho do Xangô of Brasil.
I lived my life as if writing an epic novel
And it’s conclusion?
I am left alone without desire, old age ragged,
A silent scarecrow, dancing in the wind.
I finally have what I want
I fell in love… along the way.
I sit here and write alone
No one to read or even listen to my poems.
What care I of the outside world?
Inside here… infinite latitude.