Posted in Truth


Everybody has one
a year
that seemed made for us
or, if omniscient, we would make for ourselves
one, which in certain moments
we might wish again.

1981 was like that.
I vaulted my exams without strain
with height to spare
got laid
without consequences or commitment
fitted my cohort
made friends and
no enemies
was invited to all the parties
and found out about none

Even the weather was good
autumn impersonated summer
precocious spring and
tamest winter memory could recall.
A good year
I was 21 – perhaps it was that.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.