Decisions, decisions. I didn’t make them, but I made my way— from Bath to Bangkok, Bern and back again.
I printed thousands of blank business cards and distributed them one by one into the Seine, which hired me to stare at it six hours a day (my wages images, my colleagues pigeons).
My personal funds had long since sprung a leak. I rode on lines of credit spun from sheer mystique.
Down byways, autobahns, and boulevards I drove my ’58 Mongoose Civique: a crow-blue roadster with white racing stripes and nickel trimmings, fitted with secret gears, circular rearview mirror, cream-upholstered seats, a dashboard lighter customized for pipes, and, in the glove box, an homage to Keats that moved a traffic constable to tears…
The real world unprepared for me—birds winging it, trees startled into greenness as I disembarked, tarmacs unscrolling, backroads rolling till I parked and watched the whole scene freeze.
I couldn’t get away with it for long, or be away from her. But what to be? Or more precisely, do? Write poetry? A poet is anyone who has a strong opinion about the moon—and I had three, and she’d heard all of them, and called them wrong.